THE  MAN  AGAINST  THE  SKY 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

.  .  .  POEMS  .  .  . 
CAPTAIN  CEAIG 
THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  NIGHT 
THE  TOWN  DOWN  THE   RIVER 
THE  MAN  AGAINST  THE  SKY 

.  .  .  PLAYS  .  .  . 

VAN  ZORN.    A  Comedy  in  Three  Acts 
THE  PORCUPINE.    A  Drama  in  Three  Acts 


THE  MAN  AGAINST  THE  SKY 

A  Book  of  Poems 
BY 

EDWIN  ARLINGTON  ROBINSON 


tf  efo  gatfe 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
1920 

All  riffhtt  r«g«ri;»d 


LIBRARY 

OF  CALIFORNW 
DAVLS 


COPTBTOHT,  1916, 

BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY, 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.    Published  February,  1916. 


NorbJoob 

J.  8.  Cushlng  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 
Norwood.  Maas.,  U.S.A. 


THE   MEMORY   OF 

WILLIAM  EDWARD  BUTLER 


SEVERAL  of  the  poems  included  in  this  book  are 
reprinted  from  American  periodicals,  as  follows : 
"The  Gift  of  God,"  "Old  King  Cole,"  "Another 
Dark  Lady,"  and  "  The  Unforgiven,"  from  Scribner's 
Magazine;  "Flammonde"  and  "The  Poor  Rela- 
tion," from  The  Outlook  ;  "  The  Clinging  Vine,"  from 
The  Atlantic  Monthly;  "Eros  Turannos"  and  "Bo- 
kardo,"  from  Poetry ;  "  The  Voice  of  Age,"  from 
Harper's  Weekly;  "Cassandra,"  from  The  Boston 
Transcript;  "The  Burning  Book,"  from  The  Corn- 
hill  Booklet;  " Theophilus,"  from  The  Trend;  "Ben 
Jonson  Entertains  a  Man  from  Stratford,"  from 
The  Drama  Quarterly. 

[vii] 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

FLAMMONDE 1  "" 

THE  GIFT  OF  GOD 8    v 

THE  CLINGING  VINE 12  ^ 

CASSANDRA 19  x- 

JOHN  GORHAM 23  v 

STAFFORD'S  CABIN 28 

HILLCREST 32 

OLD  KING  COLE         ........  36 

BEN  JONSON  ENTERTAINS  A  MAN  FROM  STRATFORD          .  42 

EROS  TURANNOS 67 

OLD  TRAILS 71 

THE  UNFORGIVEN 78 

THEOPHILUS 83 

VETERAN  SIRENS .85 

SIEGE  PERILOUS 87 

ANOTHER  DARK  LADY 89  ^ 

THE  VOICE  OF  AGE 91    V 

THE  DARK  HOUSE 94 

[ix] 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

FLAMMONDE 1  "" 

THE  GIFT  OF  GOD 8    v 

THE  CLINGING  VINE 12  ^ 

CASSANDRA 19 

JOHN  GORHAM 23 

STAFFORD'S  CABIN 28 

HILLCREST 32   v 

OLD  KING  COLE 36 

BEN  JONSON  ENTERTAINS  A  MAN  FROM  STRATFORD          .  42 

EROS  TDRANNOS 67 

OLD  TRAILS 71 

THE  UNFORGIVEN 78 

THEOPHILUS 83 

VETERAN  SIRENS 85 

SIEGE  PERILOUS 87 

ANOTHER  DARK  LADY 89  v 

THE  VOICE  OF  AGE 91    v 

THE  DARK  HOUSE .94 

[ix] 


MM 

THE  POOR  RELATION 98 

THE  BURNING  BOOK  . 103 

FRAGMENT 106 

LlSETTE    AND   ElLEEN 108 

LLEWELLYN  AND  THE  TREE Ill 

BEWICK  FINZER          . 119 

BOKARDO 122 

THE  MAN  AGAINST  THE  SKT  .        .        .130 


THE  MAN  AGAINST  THE  SKY 


FLAMMONDE 

The  man  Flammonde,  from  God  knows  where, 
With  firm  address  and  foreign  air, 
With  news  of  nations  in  his  talk 
And  something  royal  in  his  walk, 
With  glint  of  iron  in  his  eyes, 
But  never  doubt,  nor  yet  surprise, 
Appeared,  and  stayed,  and  held  his  head 
As  one  by  kings  accredited. 

in 


Erect,  with  his  alert  repose 
About  him,  and  about  his  clothes, 
He  pictured  all  tradition  hears 
Of  what  we  owe  to  fifty  years. 
His  cleansing  heritage  of  taste 
Paraded  neither  want  nor  waste ; 
And  what  he  needed  for  his  fee 
To  live,  he  borrowed  graciously. 

He  never  told  us  what  he  was, 
Or  what  mischance,  or  Q ther  cause, 
Had  banished  him  from  better  days 
To  play  the  Prince  of  Castaways. 
Meanwhile  he  played  surpassing  well 
A  part,  for  most,  unplayable ; 
In  fine,  one  pauses,  half  afraid 
To  say  for  certain  that  he  played. 

[2] 


For  that,  one  may  as  well  forego 
Conviction  as  to  yes  or  no ; 
Nor  can  I  say  just  how  intense 
Would  then  have  been  the  difference 
To  several,  who,  having  striven 
In  vain  to  get  what  he  was  given, 
Would  see  the  stranger  taken  on 
By  friends  not  easy  to  be  won. 

Moreover,  many  a  malcontent 
He  soothed  and  found  munificent ; 
His  courtesy  beguiled  and  foiled 
Suspicion  that  his  years  were  soiled ; 
His  mien  distinguished  any  crowd, 
His  credit  strengthened  when  he  bowed ; 
And  women,  young  and  old,  were  fond 
Of  looking  at  the  man  Flammonde. 

[3] 


There  was  a  woman  in  our  town 
On  whom  the  fashion  was  to  frown ; 
But  while  our  talk  renewed  the  tinge 
Of  a  long-faded  scarlet  friage, 
The  man  Flammonde  saw  none  of  that, 
And  what  he  saw  we  wondered  at  — 
That  none  of  us,  in  her  distress, 
Could  hide  or  find  our  littleness. 

There  was  a  boy  that  all  agreed 

Had  shut  within  him  the  rare  seed 

Of  learning.     We  could  understand, 

But  none  of  us  could  lift  a  hand. 

The  man  Flammonde  appraised  the  youth, 

And  told  a  few  of  us  the  truth ; 

And  thereby,  for  a  little  gold, 

A  flowered  future  was  unrolled. 

[4] 


There  were  two  citizens  who  fought 
For  years  and  years,  and  over  nought ; 
They  made  life  awkward  for  their  friends, 
And  shortened  their  own  dividends. 
The  man  Flammonde  said  what  was  wrong 
Should  be  made  right ;  nor  was  it  long 
Before  they  were  again  in  line, 
And  had  each  other  in  to  dine. 

And  these  I  mention  are  but  four 
Of  many  out  of  many  more. 
So  much  for  them.    But  what  of  him  — 
So  firm  in  every  look  and  limb  ? 
What  small  satanic  sort  of  kink 
Was  in  his  brain  ?    What  broken  link 
Withheld  him  from  the  destinies 
That  came  so  near  to  being  his  ? 

[5] 


What  was  he,  when  we  came  to  sift 
His  meaning,  and  to  note  the  drift 
Of  incommunicable  ways 
That  make  us  ponder  while  we  praise  ? 
Why  was  it  that  his  charm  revealed 
Somehow  the  surface  of  a  shield  ? 
What  was  it  that  we  never  caught? 
What  was  he,  and  what  was  he  not  ? 

How  much  it  was  of  him  we  met 
We  cannot  ever  know ;  nor  yet 
Shall  all  he  gave  us  quite  atone 
For  what  was  his,  and  his  alone ; 
Nor  need  we  now,  since  he  knew  best, 
Nourish  an  ethical  unrest : 
Rarely  at  once  will  nature  give 
The  power  to  be  Flammonde  and  live. 

[6] 


We  cannot  know  how  much  we  learn 
From  those  who  never  will  return, 
Until  a  flash  of  unforeseen 
Remembrance  falls  on  what  has  been. 
We've  each  a  darkening  hill  to  climb ; 
And  this  is  why,  from  time  to  time 
In  Tilbury  Town,  we  look  beyond 
Horizons  for  the  man  Flammonde. 


[7] 


THE   GIFT  OF  GOD 

Blessed  with  a  joy  that  only  she 

Of  all  alive  shall  ever  know, 

She  wears  a  proud  humility 

For  what  it  was  that  willed  it  so,  — 

That  her  degree  should  be  so  great 

Among  the  favored  of  the  Lord 

That  she  may  scarcely  bear  the  weight 

Of  her  bewildering  reward. 

[8] 


As  one  apart,  immune,  alone, 
Or  featured  for  the  shining  ones, 
And  like  to  none  that  she  has  known 
Of  other  women's  other  sons,  — 
The  firm  fruition  of  her  need, 
He  shines  anointed ;  and  he  blurs 
Her  vision,  till  it  seems  indeed 
A  sacrilege  to  call  him  hers. 

She  fears  a  little  for  so  much 
Of  what  is  best,  and  hardly  dares 
To  think  of  him  as  one  to  touch 
With  aches,  indignities,  and  cares ; 
She  sees  him  rather  at  the  goal, 
Still  shining ;  and  her  dream  foretells 
The  proper  shining  of  a  soul 
Where  nothing  ordinary  dwells. 

[9] 


Perchance  a  canvass  of  the  town 
Would  find  him  far  from  flags  and  shouts, 
And  leave  him  only  the  renown 
Of  many  smiles  and  many  doubts ; 
Perchance  the  crude  and  common  tongue 
Would  havoc  strangely  with  his  worth ; 
But  she,  with  innocence  unwrung, 
Would  read  his  name  around  the  earth. 

And  others,  knowing  how  this  youth 
Would  shine,  if  love  could  make  him  great, 
When  caught  and  tortured  for  the  truth 
Would  only  writhe  and  hesitate ; 
While  she,  arranging  for  his  days 
What  centuries  could  not  fulfill, 
Transmutes  him  with  her  faith  and  praise, 
And  has  him  shining  where  she  will. 

[10] 


She  crowns  him  with  her  gratefulness, 

And  says  again  that  life  is  good ; 

And  should  the  gift  of  God  be  less 

In  him  than  in  her  motherhood, 

His  fame,  though  vague,  will  not  be  small, 

As  upward  through  her  dream  he  fares, 

Half  clouded  with  a  crimson  fall 

Of  roses  thrown  on  marble  stairs. 


in] 


THE   CLINGING  VINE 

"  Be  calm  ?    And  was  I  frantic  ? 

You'll  have  me  laughing  soon. 
I'm  calm  as  this  Atlantic, 

And  quiet  as  the  moon ; 
I  may  have  spoken  faster 

Than  once,  in  other  days ; 
For  I've  no  more  a  master, 

And  now  —  'Be  calm/  he  says. 

U21 


"Fear  not,  fear  no  commotion,  — 

I'll  be  as  rocks  and  sand ; 
The  moon  and  stars  and  ocean 

Will  envy  my  command ; 
No  creature  could  be  stiller 

In  any  kind  of  place 
Than  I  ...  No,  I'll  not  kill  her; 

Her  death  is  in  her  face. 

"  Be  happy  while  she  has  it, 

For  she'll  not  have  it  long ; 
A  year,  and  then  you'll  pass  it, 

Preparing  a  new  song. 
And  I'm  a  fool  for  prating 

Of  what  a  year  may  bring, 
When  more  like  her  are  waiting 

For  more  like  you  to  sing. 

[13] 


"You  mock  me  with  denial, 

You  mean  to  call  me  hard  ? 
You  see  no  room  for  trial 

When  all  my  doors  are  barred  ? 
You  say,  and  you'd  say  dying, 

That  I  dream  what  I  know ; 
And  sighing,  and  denying, 

You'd  hold  my  hand  and  go. 

" You  scowl  —  and  I  don't  wonder; 

I  spoke  too  fast  again ; 
But  you'll  forgive  one  blunder, 

For  you  are  like  most  men : 
You  are,  —  or  so  you've  told  me, 

So  many  mortal  times, 
That  heaven  ought  not  to  hold  me 

Accountable  for  crimes. 

[14] 


"  Be  calm  ?    Was  I  unpleasant  ? 

Then  I'll  be  more  discreet, 
And  grant  you,  for  the  present, 

The  balm  of  my  defeat : 
What  she,  with  all  her  striving, 

Could  not  have  brought  about, 
You've  done.    Your  own  contriving 

Has  put  the  last  light  out. 

"  If  she  were  the  whole  story, 

If  worse  were  not  behind, 
I'd  creep  with  you  to  glory, 

Believing  I  was  blind; 
I'd  creep,  and  go  on  seeming 

To  be  what  I  despise. 
You  laugh,  and  say  I'm  dreaming, 

And  all  your  laughs  are  lies. 

[15] 


"  Are  women  mad  ?    A  few  are, 

And  if  it's  true  you  say  — 
If  most  men  are  as  you  are  — 

We'll  all  be  mad  some  day. 
Be  calm  —  and  let  me  finish ; 

There's  more  for  you  to  know. 
I'll  talk  while  you  diminish, 

And  listen  while  you  grow. 

There  was  a  man  who  married 

Because  he  couldn't  see ; 
And  all  his  days  he  carried 

The  mark  of  his  degree. 
But  you  —  you  came  clear-sighted, 

And  found  truth  in  my  eyes ; 
And  all  my  wrongs  you've  righted 

With  lies,  and  lies,  and  lies. 

[16] 


"You've  killed  the  last  assurance 

That  once  would  have  me  strive 
To  rouse  an  old  endurance 

That  is  no  more  alive. 
It  makes  two  people  chilly 

To  say  what  we  have  said, 
But  you  —  you'll  not  be  silly 

And  wrangle  for  the  dead. 

"  You  don't  ?    You  never  wrangle  ? 

Why  scold  then,  —  or  complain  ? 
More  words  will  only  mangle 

What  you've  already  slain. 
Your  pride  you  can't  surrender? 

My  name  —  for  that  you  fear  ? 
Since  when  were  men  so  tender, 

And  honor  so  severe  ? 

o  [17] 


"No  more  —  I'll  never  bear  it. 

I'm  going.     I'm  like  ice. 
My  burden  ?    You  would  share  it  ? 

Forbid  the  sacrifice ! 
Forget  so  quaint  a  notion, 

And  let  no  more  be  told ; 
For  moon  and  stars  and  ocean 

And  you  and  I  are  cold." 


(18 


CASSANDRA 

I  heard  one  who  said :  "  Verily, 
What  word  have  I  for  children  here  ? 

Your  Dollar  is  your  only  Word, 
The  wrath  of  it  your  only  fear. 

"You  build  it  altars  tall  enough 
To  make  you  see,  but  you  are  blind ; 

You  cannot  leave  it  long  enough 
To  look  before  you  or  behind. 

[19] 


"  When  Reason  beckons  you  to  pause, 
You  laugh  and  say  that  you  know  best ; 

But  what  it  is  you  know,  you  keep 
As  dark  as  ingots  in  a  chest. 

"  You  laugh  and  answer,  '  We  are  young ; 

O  leave  us  now,  and  let  us  grow. '  — 
Not  asking  how  much  more  of  this 

Will  Time  endure  or  Fate  bestow. 

"  Because  a  few  complacent  years 
Have  made  your  peril  of  your  pride, 

Think  you  that  you  are  to  go  on 
Forever  pampered  and  untried? 

"  What  lost  eclipse  of  history, 
What  bivouac  of  the  marching  stars, 

Has  given  the  sign  for  you  to  see 
Millenniums  and  last  great  wars  ? 

[201 


"  What  unrecorded  overthrow 
Of  all  the  world  has  ever  known, 

Or  ever  been,  has  made  itself 
So  plain  to  you,  and  you  alone  ? 

"Your  Dollar,  Dove  and  Eagle  make 

A  Trinity  that  even  you 
Rate  higher  than  you  rate  yourselves ; 

It  pays,  it  flatters,  and  it's  new. 

"And  though  your  very  flesh  and  blood 
Be  what  your  Eagle  eats  and  drinks, 

You'll  praise  him  for  the  best  of  birds, 
Not  knowing  what  the  Eagle  thinks. 

"  The  power  is  yours,  but  not  the  sight ; 

You  see  not  upon  what  you  tread ; 
You  have  the  ages  for  your  guide, 

But  not  the  wisdom  to  be  led. 

[211 


"  Think  you  to  tread  forever  down 

The  merciless  old  verities  ? 
And  are  you  never  to  have  eyes 

To  see  the  world  for  what  it  is  ? 

"  Are  you  to  pay  for  what  you  have 
With  all  you  are?"  —  No  other  word 

We  caught,  but  with  a  laughing  crowd 
Moved  on.    None  heeded,  and  few  heard. 


[22] 


JOHN  GORHAM 

"  Tell  me  what  you're  doing  over  here,  John  Gorham, 
Sighing  hard  and  seeming  to  be  sorry  when  you're  not ; 
Make  me  laugh  or  let  me  go  now,  for  long  faces  in  the 

moonlight 
Are  a  sign  for  me   to   say  again  a  word   that  you 

forgot."— 

"  I'm  over  here  to  tell  you  what  the  moon  already 
May  have  said  or  maybe  shouted  ever  since  a  year  ago ; 

[231 


I'm  over  here  to  tell  you  what  you  are,  Jane  Wayland, 
And  to  make  you  rather  sorry,  I  should  say,  for  being 


"Tell   me   what    you're   saying    to    me   now,  John 

Gorham, 
Or  you'll  never  see  as  much  of  me  as  ribbons  any 

more; 

I'll  vanish  in  as  many  ways  as  I  have  toes  and  fingers, 
And  you'll  not  follow  far  for  one  where  flock,  have 

been  before."  — 

"I'm  sorry  now  you  never  saw  the  flocks,  Jane  Way- 
land, 

But  you're  the  one  to  make  of  them  as  many  as  you 
need. 

[24] 


And  then  about  the  vanishing.     It's  I  who  mean  to 

vanish ; 
And  when  I'm  here  no  longer  you'll  be  done  with  me 

indeed."  — 

"  That's  a  way  to  tell  me  what  I  am,  John  Gorham  1 
How  am  I  to  know  myself  until  I  make  you  smile  ? 
Try  to  look  as  if  the  moon  were  making  faces  at  you, 
And  a  little  more  as  if  you  meant  to  stay  a  little 
while."  — 


"You  are  what  it  is  that  over  rose-blown  gardens 
Makes  a  pretty  flutter  for  a  season  in  the  sun ; 
You  are  what  it  is  that  with  a  mouse,  Jane  Wayland, 
Catches  him  and  let's  him  go  and  eats  him  up  for 
fun."  — 

[25] 


"  Sure  I  never  took  you  for  a  mouse,  John  Gorham ; 

All  you  say  is  easy,  but  so  far  from  being  true 

That  I  wish  you  wouldn't  ever  be  again  the  one  to 

think  so ; 
For  it  isn't  cats  and  butterflies  that  I  would  be  to 

you."  — 

"  All  your  little  animals  are  in  one  picture  — 
One  I've  had  before  me  since  a  year  ago  to-night ; 
And  the  picture  where  they  live  will  be  of  you,  Jane 

Wayland, 
Till  you  find  a  way  to  kill  them  or  to  keep  them  out 

of  sight."  — 

"  Won't  you  ever  see  me  as  I  am,  John  Gorham, 
Leaving  out  the  foolishness  and  all  I  never  meant  ? 

[26] 


Somewhere  in  me  there's  a  woman,  if  you  know  the 

way  to  find  her. 
Will  you  like  me  any  better  if  I  prove  it  and  repent?" 

"  I  doubt  if  I  shall  ever  have  the  time,  Jane  Wayland ; 
And  I  dare  say  all  this  moonlight  lying  round  us  might 

as  well 
Fall  for  nothing  on  the  shards  of  broken  urns  that  are 

forgotten, 
As  on  two  that  have  no  longer  much  of  anything  to 

tell." 


[27] 


STAFFORD'S  CABIN 

Once  there  was  a  cabin  here,  and  once  there  was  a  man ; 
And  something  happened  here  before  my  memory 

began. 

Time  has  made  the  two  of  them  the  fuel  of  one  flame 
And  all  we  have  of  them  is  now  a  legend  and  a  name. 

All  I  have  to  say  is  what  an  old  man  said  to  me, 

And  that  would  seem  to  be  as  much  as  there  will  ever  be. 

[28] 


"  Fifty  years  ago  it  was  we  found  it  where  it  sat. "  — 
And  forty  years  ago  it  was  old  Archibald  said  that. 

"An  apple  tree  that's  yet  alive  saw  something,  I  sup- 
pose, 

Of  what  it  was  that  happened  there,  and  what  no 
mortal  knows. 

Some  one  on  the  mountain  heard  far  off  a  master 
shriek, 

And  then  there  was  a  light  that  showed  the  way  for 
men  to  seek. 

"  We  found  it  in  the  morning  with  an  iron  bar  behind, 
And  there  were  chains  around  it ;  but  no  search  could 

ever  find, 

Either  in  the  ashes  that  were  left,  or  anywhere, 
A  sign  to  tell  of  who  or  what  had  been  with  Stafford 

there. 

[29] 


"  Stafford  was  a  likely  man  with  ideas  of  his  own  — 
Though  I  could  never  like  the  kind  that  likes  to  live 

alone ; 
And  when  you  met,  you  found  his  eyes  were  always 

on  your  shoes, 
As  if  they  did  the  talking  when  he  asked  you  for  the 

news. 


"That's  all,  my  son.  Were  I  to  talk  for  hah*  a  hun- 
dred years 

I'd  never  clear  away  from  there  the  cloud  that  never 
clears. 

We  buried  what  was  left  of  it,  —  the  bar,  too,  and  the 
chains ; 

And  only  for  the  apple  tree  there's  nothing  that 
remains." 

[30] 


Forty  years  ago  it  was  I  heard  the  old  man  say, 
"That's  all,  my  son."  —  And  here  again  I  find  the 

place  to-day, 
Deserted  and  told  only  by  the  tree  that  knows  the 

most, 
And  overgrown  with  golden-rod  as  if  there  were  no 

ghost. 


[31] 


HILLCREST 

(To  MKS.  EDWARD  MACDOWELL) 

No  sound  of  any  storm  that  shakes 
Old  island  walls  with  older  seas 
Comes  here  where  now  September  makes 
An  island  in  a  sea  of  trees. 

Between  the  sunlight  and  the  shade 
A  man  may  learn  till  he  forgets 
The  roaring  of  a  world  remade, 
And  all  his  ruins  and  regrets ; 

[32] 


And  if  he  still  remembers  here 

Poor  fights  he  may  have  won  or  lost,  — 

If  he  be  ridden  with  the  fear 

Of  what  some  other  fight  may  cost,  — 

If,  eager  to  confuse  too  soon, 

What  he  has  known  with  what  may  be, 

He  reads  a  planet  out  of  tune 

For  cause  of  his  jarred  harmony,  — 

If  here  he  venture  to  unroll 
His  index  of  adagios, 
And  he  be  given  to  console 
Humanity  with  what  he  knows,  — 

He  may  by  contemplation  learn 
A  little  more  than  what  he  knew, 
And  even  see  great  oaks  return 
To  acorns  out  of  which  they  grew. 

D  [33] 


He  may,  if  he  but  listen  well, 
Through  twilight  and  the  silence  here, 
Be  told  what  there  are  none  may  tell 
To  vanity's  impatient  ear ; 

And  he  may  never  dare  again 
Say  what  awaits  him,  or  be  sure 
What  sunlit  labyrinth  of  pain 
He  may  not  enter  and  endure. 

Who  knows  to-day  from  yesterday 
May  learn  to  count  no  thing  too  strange : 
Love  builds  of  what  Time  takes  away, 
Till  Death  itself  is  less  than  Change. 

Who  sees  enough  in  his  duress 
May  go  as  far  as  dreams  have  gone ; 
Who  sees  a  little  may  do  less 
Than  many  who  are  blind  have  done ; 

F341 


Who  sees  unchastened  here  the  soul 
Triumphant  has  no  other  sight 
Than  has  a  child  who  sees  the  whole 
World  radiant  with  his  own  delight. 

Far  journeys  and  hard  wandering 
Await  him  in  whose  crude  surmise 
Peace,  like  a  mask,  hides  everything 
That  is  and  has  been  from  his  eyes ; 

And  all  his  wisdom  is  unfound, 
Or  like  a  web  that  error  weaves 
On  airy  looms  that  have  a  sound 
No  louder  now  than  falling  leaves. 


35 


OLD  KING  COLE 

In  Tilbury  Town  did  Old  King  Cole 
A  wise  old  age  anticipate, 
Desiring,  with  his  pipe  and  bowl, 
No  Khan's  extravagant  estate. 
No  crown  annoyed  his  honest  head, 
No  fiddlers  three  were  called  or  needed ; 
For  two  disastrous  heirs  instead 
Made  music  more  than  ever  three  did. 

[36] 


Bereft  of  her  with  whom  his  life 
Was  harmony  without  a  flaw, 
He  took  no  other  for  a  wife, 
Nor  sighed  for  any  that  he  saw ; 
And  if  he  doubted  his  two  sons, 
And  heirs,  Alexis  and  Evander, 
He  might  have  been  as  doubtful  once 
Of  Robert  Burns  and  Alexander. 

Alexis,  in  his  early  youth, 

Began  to  steal  —  from  old  and  young. 

Likewise  Evander,  and  the  truth 

Was  like  a  bad  taste  on  his  tongue. 

Born  thieves  and  liars,  their  affair 

Seemed  only  to  be  tarred  with  evil  — 

The  most  insufferable  pair 

Of  scamps  that  ever  cheered  the  devil. 

[37] 


The  world  went  on,  their  fame  went  on, 
And  they  went  on  —  from  bad  to  worse ; 
Till,  goaded  hot  with  nothing  done, 
And  each  accoutred  with  a  curse, 
The  friends  of  Old  King  Cole,  by  twos, 
And  fours,  and  sevens,  and  elevens, 
Pronounced  unalterable  views 
Of  doings  that  were  not  of  heaven's. 

And  having  learned  again  whereby 
Their  baleful  zeal  had  come  about, 
King  Cole  met  many  a  wrathful  eye 
So  kindly  that  its  wrath  went  out  — 
Or  partly  out.    Say  what  they  would, 
He  seemed  the  more  to  court  then*  candor ; 
But  never  told  what  kind  of  good 
Was  in  Alexis  and  Evander. 

[38] 


And  Old  King  Cole,  with  many  a  puff 

That  haloed  his  urbanity, 

Would  smoke  till  he  had  smoked  enough, 

And  listen  most  attentively. 

He  beamed  as  with  an  inward  light 

That  had  the  Lord's  assurance  in  it ; 

And  once  a  man  was  there  all  night, 

Expecting  something  every  minute. 

But  whether  from  too  little  thought, 

Or  too  much  fealty  to  the  bowl, 

A  dim  reward  was  all  he  got 

For  sitting  up  with  Old  King  Cole. 

"  Though  mine,"  the  father  mused  aloud, 

"  Are  not  the  sons  I  would  have  chosen, 

Shall  I,  less  evilly  endowed, 

By  their  infirmity  be  frozen  ? 

[391 


"They'll  have  a  bad  end,  I'll  agree, 

But  I  was  never  born  to  groan ; 

For  I  can  see  what  I  can  see, 

And  I'm  accordingly  alone. 

With  open  heart  and  open  door, 

I  love  my  friends,  I  like  my  neighbors ; 

But  if  I  try  to  tell  you  more, 

Your  doubts  will  overmatch  my  labors. 

"  This  pipe  would  never  make  me  calm, 
This  bowl  my  grief  would  never  drown. 
For  grief  like  mine  there  is  no  balm 
In  Gilead,  or  in  Tilbury  Town. 
And  if  I  see  what  I  can  see, 
I  know  not  any  way  to  blind  it ; 
Nor  more  if  any  way  may  be 
For  you  to  grope  or  fly  to  find  it. 

[40] 


"  There  may  be  room  for  ruin  yet, 
And  ashes  for  a  wasted  love ; 
Or,  like  One  whom  you  may  forget, 
I  may  have  meat  you  know  not  of. 
And  if  I'd  rather  live  than  weep 
Meanwhile,  do  you  find  that  surprising  ? 
Why,  bless  my  soul,  the  man's  asleep  ! 
That's  good.    The  sun  will  soon  be  rising.3 


[41] 


BEN  JONSON  ENTERTAINS  A  MAN 
FROM  STRATFORD 

You  are  a  friend  then,  as  I  make  it  out, 

Of  our  man  Shakespeare,  who  alone  of  us 

Will  put  an  ass's  head  in  Fairyland 

As  he  would  add  a  shilling  to  more  shillings, 

All  most  harmonious,  —  and  out  of  his 

Miraculous  inviolable  increase 

Fills  Ilion,  Rome,  or  any  town  you  like 

Of  olden  time  with  timeless  Englishmen ; 

And  I  must  wonder  what  you  think  of  him  — 

All  you  down  there  where  your  small  Avon  flows 

By  Stratford,  and  where  you're  an  Alderman. 

[421 


Some,  for  a  guess,  would  have  him  riding  back 
To  be  a  farrier  there,  or  say  a  dyer ; 
Or  maybe  one  of  your  adept  surveyors ; 
Or  like  enough  the  wizard  of  all  tanners. 
Not  you  —  no  fear  of  that ;  for  I  discern 
In  you  a  kindling  of  the  flame  that  saves  — 
The  nimble  element,  the  true  phlogiston ; 
I  see  it,  and  was  told  of  it,  moreover, 
By  our  discriminate  friend  himself,  no  other. 
Had  you  been  one  of  the  sad  average, 
As  he  would  have  it,  —  meaning,  as  I  take  it, 
The  sinew  and  the  solvent  of  our  Island, 
You'd  not  be  buying  beer  for  this  Terpander's 
Approved  and  estimated  friend  Ben  Jonson ; 
He'd  never  foist  it  as  a  part  of  his 
Contingent  entertainment  of  a  townsman 
While  he  goes  off  rehearsing,  as  he  must, 

[431 


If  he  shall  ever  be  the  Duke  of  Stratford. 

And  my  words  are  no  shadow  on  your  town  -— 

Far  from  it ;  for  one  town's  as  like  another 

As  all  are  unlike  London.     Oh,  he  knows  it,  — 

And  there's  the  Stratford  in  him ;  he  denies  it, 

And  there's  the  Shakespeare  in  him.     So,  God  help 

him ! 

I  tell  him  he  needs  Greek ;  but  neither  God 
Nor  Greek  will  help  him.    Nothing  will  help  that 

man. 

You  see  the  fates  have  given  him  so  much, 
He  must  have  all  or  perish,  —  or  look  out 
Of  London,  where  he  sees  too  many  lords ; 
They're  part  of  half  what  ails  him :  I  suppose 
There's  nothing  fouler  down  among  the  demons 
Than  what  it  is  he  feels  when  he  remembers 
The  dust  and  sweat  and  ointment  of  his  calling 

[44] 


With  his  lords  looking  on  and  laughing  at  him. 

King  as  he  is,  he  can't  be  king  de  facto, 

And  that's  as  well,  because  he  wouldn't  like  it ; 

He'd  frame  a  lower  rating  of  men  then 

Than  he  has  now ;  and  after  that  would  come 

An  abdication  or  an  apoplexy. 

He  can't  be  king,  not  even  king  of  Stratford,  — 

Though  half  the  world,  if  not  the  whole  of  it, 

May  crown  him  with  a  crown  that  fits  no  king 

Save  Lord  Apollo's  homesick  emissary : 

Not  there  on  Avon,  or  on  any  stream 

Where  Naiads  and  their  white  arms  are  no  more, 

Shall  he  find  home  again.     It's  all  too  bad. 

But  there's  a  comfort,  for  he'll  have  that  House  - 

The  best  you  ever  saw ;  and  he'll  be  there 

Anon,  as  you're  an  Alderman.     Good  God ! 

He  makes  me  lie  awake  o'nights  and  laugh. 

[45] 


And  you  have  known  him  from  his  origin, 
You  tell  me ;  and  a  most  uncommon  urchin 
He  must  have  been  to  the  few  seeing  ones  — 
A  trifle  terrifying,  I  dare  say, 
Discovering  a  world  with  his  man's  eyes, 
Quite  as  another  lad  might  see  some  finches, 
If  he  looked  hard  and  had  an  eye  for  nature. 
But  this  one  had  his  eyes  and  their  foretelling, 
And  he  had  you  to  fare  with,  and  what  else? 
He  must  have  had  a  father  and  a  mother  — 
In  fact  I've  heard  him  say  so  —  and  a  dog, 
As  a  boy  should,  I  venture ;  and  the  dog, 
Most  likely,  was  the  only  man  who  knew  him. 
A  dog,  for  all  I  know,  is  what  he  needs 
As  much  as  anything  right  here  to-day, 
To  counsel  him  about  his  disillusions, 
Old  aches,  and  parturitions  of  what's  coming,  — 

[46] 


A  dog  of  orders,  an  emeritus, 

To  wag  his  tail  at  him  when  he  comes  home, 

And  then  to  put  his  paws  up  on  his  knees 

And  say,  "For  God's  sake,  what's  it  all  about?" 

I  don't  know  whether  he  needs  a  dog  or  not  — 

Or  what  he  needs.     I  tell  him  he  needs  Greek ; 

I'll  talk  of  rules  and  Aristotle  with  him, 

And  if  his  tongue's  at  home  he'll  say  to  that, 

"  I  have  your  word  that  Aristotle  knows, 

And  you  mine  that  I  don't  know  Aristotle." 

He's  all  at  odds  with  all  the  unities, 

And  what's  yet  worse,  it  doesn't  seem  to  matter ; 

He  treads  along  through  Time's  old  wilderness 

As  if  the  tramp  of  all  the  centuries 

Had  left  no  roads  —  and  there  are  none,  for  him ; 

He  doesn't  see  them,  even  with  those  eyes,  — 

[47] 


And  that's  a  pity,  or  I  say  it  is. 

Accordingly  we  have  him  as  we  have  him  — 

Going  his  way,  the  way  that  he  goes  best, 

A  pleasant  animal  with  no  great  noise 

Or  nonsense  anywhere  to  set  him  off  — 

Save  only  divers  and  inclement  devils 

Have  made  of  late  his  heart  their  dwelling  place. 

A  flame  half  ready  to  fly  out  sometimes 

At  some  annoyance  may  be  fanned  up  in  him, 

But  soon  it  falls,  and  when  it  falls  goes  out ; 

He  knows  how  little  room  there  is  in  there 

For  crude  and  futile  animosities, 

And  how  much  for  the  joy  of  being  whole, 

And  how  much  for  long  sorrow  and  old  pain. 

On  our  side  there  are  some  who  may  be  given 

To  grow  old  wondering  what  he  thinks  of  us 

And  some  above  us,  who  are,  in  his  eyes, 

[48] 


Above  himself,  —  and  that's  quite  right  and  English. 

Yet  here  we  smile,  or  disappoint  the  gods 

Who  made  it  so  :  the  gods  have  always  eyes 

To  see  men  scratch ;  and  they  see  one  down  here 

Who  itches,  manor-bitten  to  the  bone, 

Albeit  he  knows  himself  —  yes,  yes,  he  knows  — 

The  lord  of  more  than  England  and  of  more 

Than  all  the  seas  of  England  in  all  time 

Shall  ever  wash.     D'ye  wonder  that  I  laugh  ? 

He  sees  me,  and  he  doesn't  seem  to  care ; 

And  why  the  devil  should  he  ?     I  can't  tell  you. 

I'll  meet  him  out  alone  of  a  bright  Sunday, 
Trim,  rather  spruce,  and  quite  the  gentleman. 
"What  ho,  my  lord !"  say  I.     He  doesn't  hear  me; 
Wherefore  I  have  to  pause  and  look  at  him. 
He's  not  enormous,  but  one  looks  at  him. 

E  [49] 


A  little  on  the  round  if  you  insist, 

For  now,  God  save  the  mark,  he's  growing  old ; 

He's  five  and  forty,  and  to  hear  him  talk 

These  days  you'd  call  him  eighty ;  then  you'd  add 

More  years  to  that.     He's  old  enough  to  be 

The  father  of  a  world,  and  so  he  is. 

"Ben,  you're  a  scholar,  what's  the  time  of  day?" 

Says  he ;  and  there  shines  out  of  him  again 

An  aged  light  that  has  no  age  or  station  — 

The  mystery  that's  his  —  a  mischievous 

Half-mad  serenity  that  laughs  at  fame 

For  being  won  so  easy,  and  at  friends 

Who  laugh  at  him  for  what  he  wants  the  most, 

And  for  his  dukedom  down  in  Warwickshire ;  — 

By  which  you  see  we're  all  a  little  jealous.  .  .  . 

Poor  Greene !     I  fear  the  color  of  his  name 

Was  even  as  that  of  his  ascending  soul ; 

[50] 


And  he  was  one  where  there  are  many  others,  — 

Some  scrivening  to  the  end  against  their  fate, 

Their  puppets  all  in  ink  and  all  to  die  there ; 

And  some  with  hands  that  once  would  shade  an  eye 

That  scanned  Euripides  and  ^Eschylus 

Will  reach  by  this  time  for  a  pot-house  mop 

To  slush  their  first  and  last  of  royalties. 

Poor  devils !  and  they  all  play  to  his  hand ; 

For  so  it  was  in  Athens  and  old  Rome. 

But  that's  not  here  or  there ;  I've  wandered  off. 

Greene  does  it,  or  I'm  careful.    Where's  that  boy  ? 

Yes,  he'll  go  back  to  Stratford.     And  we'll  miss  him  ? 
Dear  sir,  there'll  be  no  London  here  without  him. 
We'll  all  be  riding,  one  of  these  fine  days, 
Down  there  to  see  him  —  and  his  wife  won't  like  us ; 
And  then  we'll  think  of  what  he  never  said 

[51] 


Of  women  —  which,  if  taken  all  in  all 

With  what  he  did  say,  would  buy  many  horses. 

Though  nowadays  he's  not  so  much  for  women : 

"  So  few  of  them,"  he  says,  "  are  worth  the  guessing." 

But  there's  a  worm  at  work  when  he  says  that, 

And  while  he  says  it  one  feels  in  the  air 

A  deal  of  circumambient  hocus-pocus. 

They've  had  him  dancing  till  his  toes  were  tender, 

And  he  can  feel  'em  now,  come  chilly  rains. 

There's  no  long  cry  for  going  into  it, 

However,  and  we  don't  know  much  about  it. 

The  Fitton  thing  was  worst  of  all,  I  fancy ; 

And  you  in  Stratford,  like  most  here  in  London, 

Have  more  now  in  the  Sonnets  than  you  paid  for ; 

He's  put  her  there  with  all  her  poison  on, 

To  make  a  singing  fiction  of  a  shadow 

That's  in  his  life  a  fact,  and  always  will  be. 

[521 


But  she's  no  care  of  ours,  though  Time,  I  fear, 

Will  have  a  more  reverberant  ado 

About  her  than  about  another  one 

Who  seems  to  have  decoyed  him,  married  him, 

And  sent  him  scuttling  on  his  way  to  London,  — 

With  much  already  learned,  and  more  to  learn, 

And  more  to  follow.     Lord !  how  I  see  him  now, 

Pretending,  maybe  trying,  to  be  like  us. 

Whatever  he  may  have  meant,  we  never  had  him ; 

He  failed  us,  or  escaped,  or  what  you  will,  — 

And  there  was  that  about  him  (God  knows  what,  — 

We'd  flayed  another  had  he  tried  it  on  us) 

That  made  as  many  of  us  as  had  wits 

More  fond  of  all  his  easy  distances 

Than  one  another's  noise  and  clap-your-shoulder. 

But  think  you  not,  my  friend,  he'd  never  talk ! 

Talk  ?     He  was  eldritch  at  it ;  and  we  listened  — 

[53] 


Thereby  acquiring  praeb  we  knew  before 

Irrderaat,  or  not  prime  to  the  purpose, 

And  there  were  some,  of  owse,  and  fan  be  vow, 

Disordered  and  reduced 


On  everything  that  mode  him  *  young  demon; 

And  one  or  two  fbot  look*  *t  him  already 

A*  he  had  been  their  executioner  j 

And  once  or  twice  he  wa»,  not  knowing  it,  — 

Or  knowing^  being  torry  lor  poor  day 

And  faying  nothing,  ,  .  .    Yet,  for  all  hi. 

YottH  meet  a  thousand  of  an  afternoon 

Who  itrot  and  sun  thenuelvef  and  «ee  around  'em 

A  world  made  out  of  more  that  ha*  a  reason 

Than  his,  1  swear,  that  he  sees  here  to-day; 


Though  he  may  scarcely  give  a  Fool  an  exit 
But  we  mark  how  he  sees  in  everything 
A  law  that,  given  we  flout  it  once  too  often, 
Brings  fire  and  iron  down  on  our  naked  heads. 
To  me  it  looks  as  if  the  power  that  made  him, 
For  fear  of  giving  all  things  to  one  creature, 
Left  out  the  first,  —  faith,  innocence,  illusion, 
Whatever  'tis  that  keeps  us  out  o'  Bedlam,  — 
And  thereby,  for  his  too  consuming  vision, 
Empowered  him  out  of  nature ;  though  to  see  him, 
You'd  never  guess  what's  going  on  inside  him. 
He'll  break  out  some  day  like  a  keg  of  ale 
With  too  much  independent  frenzy  in  it ; 
And  all  for  cellaring  what  he  knows  won't  keep, 
And  what  he'd  best  forget  —  but  that  he  can't. 
You'll  have  it,  and  have  more  than  I'm  foretelling ; 
And  there'll  be  such  a  roaring  at  the  Globe 

[55] 


As  never  stunned  the  bleeding  gladiators. 
He'll  have  to  change  the  color  of  its  hair 
A  bit,  for  now  he  calls  it  Cleopatra. 
Black  hair  would  never  do  for  Cleopatra. 

But  you  and  I  are  not  yet  two  old  women, 

And  you're  a  man  of  office.     What  he  does 

Is  more  to  you  than  how  it  is  he  does  it,  — 

And  that's  what  the  Lord  God  has  never  told  him. 

They  work  together,  and  the  Devil  helps  'em ; 

They  do  it  of  a  morning,  or  if  not, 

They  do  it  of  a  night ;  in  which  event 

He's  peevish  of  a  morning.     He  seems  old ; 

He's  not  the  proper  stomach  or  the  sleep  — 

And  they're  two  sovran  agents  to  conserve  him 

Against  the  fiery  art  that  has  no  mercy 

But  what's  in  that  prodigious  grand  new  House. 

[56] 


I  gather  something  happening  in  his  boyhood 

Fulfilled  him  with  a  boy's  determination 

To  make  all  Stratford  'ware  of  him.     Well,  well, 

I  hope  at  last  he'll  have  his  joy  of  it, 

And  all  his  pigs  and  sheep  and  bellowing  beeves, 

And  frogs  and  owls  and  unicorns,  moreover, 

Be  less  than  hell  to  his  attendant  ears. 

Oh,  past  a  doubt  we'll  all  go  down  to  see  him. 

He  may  be  wise.    With  London  two  days  off, 
Down  there  some  wind  of  heaven  may  yet  revive  him ; 
But  there's  no  quickening  breath  from  anywhere 
Shall  make  of  him  again  the  poised  young  faun 
From  Warwickshire,  who'd  made,  it  seems,  already 
A  legend  of  himself  before  I  came 
To  blink  before  the  last  of  his  first  lightning. 
Whatever  there  be,  there'll  be  no  more  of  that ; 

[571 


The  coining  on  of  his  old  monster  Time 

Has  made  him  a  still  man ;  and  he  has  dreams 

Were  fair  to  think  on  once,  and  all  found  hollow. 

He  knows  how  much  of  what  men  paint  themselves 

Would  blister  in  the  light  of  what  they  are ; 

He  sees  how  much  of  what  was  great  now  shares 

An  eminence  transformed  and  ordinary ; 

He  knows  too  much  of  what  the  world  has  hushed 

In  others,  to  be  loud  now  for  himself ; 

He  knows  now  at  what  height  low  enemies 

May  reach  his  heart,  and  high  friends  let  him  fall ; 

But  what  not  even  such  as  he  may  know 

Bedevils  him  the  worst :  his  lark  may  sing 

At  heaven's  gate  how  he  will,  and  for  as  long 

As  joy  may  listen ;  but  he  sees  no  gate, 

Save  one  whereat  the  spent  clay  waits  a  little 

Before  the  churchyard  has  it,  and  the  worm. 

[581 


Not  long  ago,  late  in  an  afternoon, 

I  came  on  him  unseen  down  Lambeth  way, 

And  on  my  life  I  was  afear'd  of  him : 

He  gloomed  and  mumbled  like  a  soul  from  Tophet, 

His  hands  behind  him  and  his  head  bent  solemn. 

"What  is  it  now,"  said  I,  —  "another  woman?" 

That  made  him  sorry  for  me,  and  he  smiled. 

"No,    Ben,"    he    mused;     "it's    Nothing.     It's    all 

Nothing. 

We  come,  we  go ;  and  when  we're  done,  we're  done ; 
Spiders  and  flies  —  we're  mostly  one  or  t'other  — 
We  come,  we  go ;  and  when  we're  done,  we're  done." 
"  By  God,  you  sing  that  song  as  if  you  knew  it  I" 
Said  I,  by  way  of  cheering  him ;  "what  ails  ye?" 
"  I  think  I  must  have  come  down  here  to  think," 
Says  he  to  that,  and  pulls  his  little  beard ; 
"  Your  fly  will  serve  as  well  as  anybody, 

[59] 


And  what's  his  hour  ?    He  flies,  and  flies,  and  flies, 

And  in  his  fly's  mind  has  a  brave  appearance ; 

And  then  your  spider  gets  him  in  her  net, 

And  eats  him  out,  and  hangs  him  up  to  dry. 

That's  Nature,  the  kind  mother  of  us  all. 

And  then  your  slattern  housemaid  swings  her  broom, 

And  where' s  your  spider  ?    And  that's  Nature,  also. 

It's  Nature,  and  it's  Nothing.     It's  all  Nothing. 

It's  all  a  world  where  bugs  and  emperors 

Go  singularly  back  to  the  same  dust, 

Each  in  his  time ;  and  the  old,  ordered  stars 

That  sang  together,  Ben,  will  sing  the  same 

Old  stave  to-morrow." 

When  he  talks  like  that, 
There's  nothing  for  a  human  man  to  do 
But  lead  him  to  some  grateful  nook  like  this 

[60] 


Where  we  be  now,  and  there  to  make  him  drink. 

He'll  drink,  for  love  of  me,  and  then  be  sick ; 

A  sad  sign  always  in  a  man  of  parts, 

And  always  very  ominous.     The  great 

Should  be  as  large  in  liquor  as  in  love,  — 

And  our  great  friend  is  not  so  large  in  either : 

One  disaffects  him,  and  the  other  fails  him ; 

Whatso  he  drinks  that  has  an  antic  in  it, 

He's  wondering  what's  to  pay  in  his  insides ; 

And  while  his  eyes  are  on  the  Cyprian 

He's  fribbling  all  the  time  with  that  damned  House. 

We  laugh  here  at  his  thrift,  but  after  all 

It  may  be  thrift  that  saves  him  from  the  devil ; 

God  gave  it,  anyhow,  —  and  we'll  suppose 

He  knew  the  compound  of  his  handiwork. 

To-day  the  clouds  are  with  him,  but  anon 

He'll  out  of  'em  enough  to  shake  the  tree 

[61] 


Of  life  itself  and  bring  down  fruit  unheard-of,  — 
And,  throwing  in  the  bruised  and  whole  together, 
Prepare  a  wine  to  make  us  drunk  with  wonder ; 
And  if  he  live,  there'll  be  a  sunset  spell 
Thrown  over  him  as  over  a  glassed  lake 
That  yesterday  was  all  a  black  wild  water. 

God  send  he  live  to  give  us,  if  no  more, 

What  now's  a-rampage  in  him,  and  exhibit, 

With  a  decent  half -allegiance  to  the  ages 

An  earnest  of  at  least  a  casual  eye 

Turned  once  on  what  he  owes  to  Gutenberg, 

And  to  the  fealty  of  more  centuries 

Then  are  as  yet  a  picture  in  our  vision. 

"  There's  time  enough,  —  I'll  do  it  when  I'm  old, 

And  we're  immortal  men,"  he  says  to  that ; 

And  then  he  says  to  me,  "  Ben,  what's  '  immortal '  ? 

[62] 


Think  you  by  any  force  of  ordination 

It  may  be  nothing  of  a  sort  more  noisy 

Than  a  small  oblivion  of  component  ashes 

That  of  a  dream-addicted  world  was  once 

A  moving  atomy  much  like  your  friend  here  ?  " 

Nothing  will  help  that  man.     To  make  him  laugh, 

I  said  then  he  was  a  mad  mountebank,  — 

And  by  the  Lord  I  nearer  made  him  cry. 

I  could  have  eat  an  eft  then,  on  my  knees, 

Tail,  claws,  and  all  of  him ;  for  I  had  stung 

The  king  of  men,  who  had  no  sting  for  me, 

And  I  had  hurt  him  in  his  memories ; 

And  I  say  now,  as  I  shall  say  again, 

I  love  the  man  this  side  idolatry. 

He'll  do  it  when  he's  old,  he  says.     I  wonder. 
He  may  not  be  so  ancient  as  all  that 

[63] 


For  such  as  he,  the  thing  that  is  to  do 

Will  do  itself,  —  but  there's  a  reckoning ; 

The  sessions  that  are  now  too  much  his  own, 

The  roiling  inward  of  a  stilled  outside, 

The  churning  out  of  all  those  blood-fed  lines, 

The  nights  of  many  schemes  and  little  sleep, 

The  full  brain  hammered  hot  with  too  much  thinking, 

The  vexed  heart  over-worn  with  too  much  aching,  — 

This  weary  jangling  of  conjoined  affairs 

Made  out  of  elements  that  have  no  end, 

And  all  confused  at  once,  I  understand, 

Is  not  what  makes  a  man  to  live  forever. 

O  no,  not  now  !     He'll  not  be  going  now : 

There'll  be  time  yet  for  God  knows  what  explosions 

Before  he  goes.     He'll  stay  awhile.     Just  wait : 

Just  wait  a  year  or  two  for  Cleopatra, 

For  she's  to  be  a  balsam  and  a  comfort ; 

[641 


And  that's  not  all  a  jape  of  mine  now,  either. 
For  granted  once  the  old  way  of  Apollo 
Sings  in  a  man,  he  may  then,  if  he's  able, 
Strike  unafraid  whatever  strings  he  will 
Upon  the  last  and  wildest  of  new  lyres ; 
Nor  out  of  his  new  magic,  though  it  hymn 
The  shrieks  of  dungeoned  hell,  shall  he  create 
A  madness  or  a  gloom  to  shut  quite  out 
A  cleaving  daylight,  and  a  last  great  calm 
Triumphant  over  shipwreck  and  all  storms. 
He  might  have  given  Aristotle  creeps, 
But  surely  would  have  given  him  his  katharsis. 

He'll  not  be  going  yet.     There's  too  much  yet 

Unsung  within  the  man.     But  when  he  goes, 

I'd  stake  ye  coin  o'  the  realm  his  only  care 

For  a  phantom  world  he  sounded  and  found  wanting 

F  [651 


Will  be  a  portion  here,  a  portion  there, 
Of  this  or  that  thing  or  some  other  thing 
That  has  a  patent  and  intrinsical 
Equivalence  in  those  egregious  shillings. 
And  yet  he  knows,  God  help  him  !     Tell  me,  now, 
If  ever  there  was  anything  let  loose 
On  earth  by  gods  or  devils  heretofore 
Like  this  mad,  careful,  proud,  indifferent  Shakespeare  ! 
Where  was  it,  if  it  ever  was  ?    By  heaven, 
'Twas  never  yet  in  Rhodes  or  Pergamon  — 
In  Thebes  or  Nineveh,  a  thing  like  this  ! 
No  thing  like  this  was  ever  out  of  England ; 
And  that  he  knows.     I  wonder  if  he  cares. 
Perhaps  he  does.  .  .  .    O  Lord,  that  House  in  Strat- 
ford! 


[66] 


EROS  TURANNOS 

She  fears  him,  and  will  always  ask 

What  fated  her  to  choose  him  ; 
She  meets  in  his  engaging  mask 

All  reasons  to  refuse  him ; 
But  what  she  meets  and  what  she  fears 
Are  less  than  are  the  downward  years, 
Drawn  slowly  to  the  foamless  weirs 
Of  age,  were  she  to  lose  him. 

[67] 


Between  a  blurred  sagacity 

That  once  had  power  to  sound  him, 
And  Love,  that  will  not  let  him  be 

The  Judas  that  she  found  him, 
Her  pride  assuages  her  almost, 
As  if  it  were  alone  the  cost.  — 
He  sees  that  he  will  not  be  lost, 

And  waits  and  looks  around  him. 

A  sense  of  ocean  and  old  trees 

Envelops  and  allures  him ; 
Tradition,  touching  all  he  sees, 

Beguiles  and  reassures  him ; 
And  all  her  doubts  of  what  he  says 
Are  dimmed  with  what  she  knows  of  days 
Till  even  prejudice  delays 

And  fades,  and  she  secures  him. 

[681 


The  falling  leaf  inaugurates 

The  reign  of  her  confusion ; 
The  pounding  wave  reverberates 

The  dirge  of  her  illusion ; 
And  home,  where  passion  lived  and  died, 
Becomes  a  place  where  she  can  hide, 
While  all  the  town  and  harbor  side 

Vibrate  with  her  seclusion. 

We  tell  you,  tapping  on  our  brows, 

The  story  as  it  should  be,  — 
As  if  the  story  of  a  house 

Were  told,  or  ever  could  be ; 
We'll  have  no  kindly  veil  between 
Her  visions  and  those  we  have  seen,  — 
As  if  we  guessed  what  hers  have  been, 
Or  what  they  are  or  would  be. 

[69] 


Meanwhile  we  do  no  harm ;  for  they 
That  with  a  god  have  striven, 

Not  hearing  much  of  what  we  say, 
Take  what  the  god  has  given ; 

Though  like  waves  breaking  it  may  be, 

Or  like  a  changed  familiar  tree, 

Or  like  a  stairway  to  the  sea 
Where  down  the  blind  are  driven. 


70 


OLD  TRAILS 

(WASHINGTON  SQUARE) 

I  met  him,  as  one  meets  a  ghost  or  two, 
Between  the  gray  Arch  and  the  old  Hotel. 
"  King  Solomon  was  right,  there's  nothing  new/ 
Said  he.     "  Behold  a  ruin  who  meant  well." 

He  led  me  down  familiar  steps  again, 
Appealingly,  and  set  me  in  a  chair. 
"  My  dreams  have  all  come  true  to  other  men," 
Said  he ;   "  God  lives,  however,  and  why  care  ? 

[71] 


"An  hour  among  the  ghosts  will  do  no  harm." 
He  laughed,  and  something  glad  within  me  sank. 
I  may  have  eyed  him  with  a  faint  alarm, 
For  now  his  laugh  was  lost  in  what  he  drank. 

"They  chill  things  here  with  ice  from  hell,"  he  said ; 
"  I  might  have  known  it."     And  he  made  a  face 
That  showed  again  how  much  of  him  was  dead, 
And  how  much  was  alive  and  out  of  place, 

And  out  of  reach.     He  knew  as  well  as  I 
That  all  the  words  of  wise  men  who  are  skilled 
In  using  them  are  not  much  to  defy 
What  comes  when  memory  meets  the  unfulfilled. 

What  evil  and  infirm  perversity 

Had  been  at  work  with  him  to  bring  him  back  ? 

Never  among  the  ghosts,  assuredly, 

Would  he  originate  a  new  attack ; 

[721 


Never  among  the  ghosts,  or  anywhere, 
Till  what  was  dead  of  him  was  put  away, 
Would  he  attain  to  his  offended  share 
Of  honor  among  others  of  his  day. 

"You  ponder  like  an  owl,"  he  said  at  last ; 
"  You  always  did,  and  here  you  have  a  cause. 
For  I'm  a  confirmation  of  the  past, 
A  vengeance,  and  a  flowering  of  what  was. 

"  Sorry  ?     Of  course  you  are,  though  you  compress, 
With  even  your  most  impenetrable  fears, 
A  placid  and  a  proper  consciousness 
Of  anxious  angels  over  my  arrears. 

"  I  see  them  there  against  me  in  a  book 
As  large  as  hope,  in  ink  that  shines  by  night. 
For  sure  I  see ;  but  now  I'd  rather  look 
At  you,  and  you  are  not  a  pleasant  sight. 

[73] 


"  Forbear,  forgive.     Ten  years  are  on  my  soul, 
And  on  my  conscience.     I've  an  incubus  : 
My  one  distinction,  and  a  parlous  toll 
To  glory ;  but  hope  lives  on  clamorous. 

"'Twas  hope,  though  heaven  I  grant  you  knows   of 

what  — 

The  kind  that  blinks  and  rises  when  it  falls, 
Whether  it  sees  a  reason  why  or  not  — 
That  heard  Broadway's  hard-throated  siren-calls ; 

"'Twas   hope   that   brought   me  through    December 

storms, 

To  shores  again  where  I'll  not  have  to  be 
A  lonely  man  with  only  foreign  worms 
To  cheer  him  in  his  last  obscurity. 

"  But  what  it  was  that  hurried  me  down  here 
To  be  among  the  ghosts,  I  leave  to  you. 

[74] 


My  thanks  are  yours,  no  less,  for  one  thing  clear : 
Though  you  are  silent,  what  you  say  is  true. 

"There  may  have  been  the  devil  in  my  feet, 
For  down  I  blundered,  like  a  fugitive, 
To  find  the  old  room  in  Eleventh  Street. 
God  save  us !  —  I  came  here  again  to  live." 

We  rose  at  that,  and  all  the  ghosts  rose  then, 
And  followed  us  unseen  to  his  old  room. 
No  longer  a  good  place  for  living  men 
We  found  it,  and  we  shivered  in  the  gloom. 

The  goods  he  took  away  from  there  were  few, 
And  soon  we  found  ourselves  outside  once  more, 
Where  now  the  lamps  along  the  Avenue 
Bloomed  white  for  miles  above  an  iron  floor. 

"  Now  lead  me  to  the  newest  of  hotels," 

He  said,  "  and  let  your  spleen  be  undeceived : 

[75] 


This  ruin  is  not  myself,  but  some  one  else ; 
I  haven't  failed ;  I've  merely  not  achieved." 

Whether  he  knew  or  not,  he  laughed  and  dined 
With  more  of  an  immune  regardlessness 
Of  pits  before  him  and  of  sands  behind 
Than  many  a  child  at  forty  would  confess ; 

And  after,  when  the  bells  in  Boris  rang 

Their  tumult  at  the  Metropolitan, 

He  rocked  himself,  and  I  believe  he  sang. 

"God  lives,"  he  crooned  aloud,  "and  I'm  the  man !" 

He  was.     And  even  though  the  creature  spoiled 
All  prophecies,  I  cherish  his  acclaim. 
Three  weeks  he  fattened ;  and  five  years  he  toiled 
In  Yonkers,  —  and  then  sauntered  into  fame. 

And  he  may  go  now  to  what  streets  he  will  — 
Eleventh,  or  the  last,  and  little  care ; 

[76] 


But  he  would  find  the  old  room  very  still 

Of  evenings,  and  the  ghosts  would  all  be  there. 

I  doubt  if  he  goes  after  them ;  I  doubt 

If  many  of  them  ever  come  to  him. 

His  memories  are  like  lamps,  and  they  go  out ; 

Or  if  they  burn,  they  flicker  and  are  dim. 

A  light  of  other  gleams  he  has  to-day 
And  adulations  of  applauding  hosts ; 
A  famous  danger,  but  a  safer  way 
Than  growing  old  alone  among  the  ghosts. 

But  we  may  still  be  glad  that  we  were  wrong : 

He  fooled  us,  and  we'd  shrivel  to  deny  it ; 

Though    sometimes    when    old    echoes    ring    too 

long, 
I  wish  the  bells  in  Boris  would  be  quiet. 

[77] 


THE  UNFORGIVEN 

When  he,  who  is  the  unforgiven, 
Beheld  her  first,  he  found  her  fair : 
No  promise  ever  dreamt  in  heaven 
Could  then  have  lured  him  anywhere 
That  would  have  been  away  from  there ; 
And  all  his  wits  had  lightly  striven, 
Foiled  with  her  voice,  and  eyes,  and  hair. 

[78] 


There's  nothing  in  the  saints  and  sages 
To  meet  the  shafts  her  glances  had, 
Or  such  as  hers  have  had  for  ages 
To  blind  a  man  till  he  be  glad, 
And  humble  him  till  he  be  mad. 
The  story  would  have  many  pages, 
And  would  be  neither  good  nor  bad. 


And,  having  followed,  you  would  find  him 

Where  properly  the  play  begins ; 

But  look  for  no  red  light  behind  him  — 

No  fumes  of  many-colored  sins, 

Fanned  high  by  screaming  violins. 

God  knows  what  good  it  was  to  blind  him, 

Or  whether  man  or  woman  wins. 

[791 


And  by  the  same  eternal  token, 

Who  knows  just  how  it  will  all  end  ?  — 

This  drama  of  hard  words  unspoken, 

This  fireside  farce,  without  a  friend 

Or  enemy  to  comprehend 

What  augurs  when  two  lives  are  broken, 

And  fear  finds  nothing  left  to  mend. 


He  stares  in  vain  for  what  awaits  him, 

And  sees  in  Love  a  coin  to  toss ; 

He  smiles,  and  her  cold  hush  berates  him 

Beneath  his  hard  half  of  the  cross ; 

They  wonder  why  it  ever  was ; 

And  she,  the  unforgiving,  hates  him 

More  for  her  lack  than  for  her  loss. 

[80] 


He  feeds  with  pride  his  indecision, 
And  shrinks  from  what  will  not  occur, 
Bequeathing  with  infirm  derision 
His  ashes  to  the  days  that  were, 
Before  she  made  him  prisoner ; 
And  labors  to  retrieve  the  vision 
That  he  must  once  have  had  of  her. 


He  waits,  and  there  awaits  an  ending, 

And  he  knows  neither  what  nor  when ; 

But  no  magicians  are  attending 

To  make  him  see  as  he  saw  then, 

And  he  will  never  find  again 

The  face  that  once  had  been  the  rending 

Of  all  his  purpose  among  men. 

[81] 


He  blames  her  not,  nor  does  he  chide  her, 
And  she  has  nothing  new  to  say ; 
If  he  were  Bluebeard  he  could  hide  her, 
But  that's  not  written  in  the  play, 
And  there  will  be  no  change  to-day ; 
Although,  to  the  serene  outsider, 
There  still  would  seem  to  be  a  way. 


[82] 


THEOPHILUS 

By  what  serene  malevolence  of  names 

Had  you  the  gift  of  yours,  Theophilus  ? 

Not  even  a  smeared  young  Cyclops  at  his  games 

Would  have  you  long,  —  and  you  are  one  of  us. 

Told  of  your  deeds  I  shudder  for  your  dreams, 
And  they,  no  doubt,  are  few  and  innocent. 
Meanwhile,  I  marvel ;  for  in  you,  it  seems, 
Heredity  outshines  environment. 

[83] 


What  lingering  bit  of  Belial,  unforeseen, 
Survives  and  amplifies  itself  in  you  ? 
What  manner  of  devilry  has  ever  been 
That  your  obliquity  may  never  do? 

Humility  befits  a  father's  eyes, 
But  not  a  friend  of  us  would  have  him  weep. 
Admiring  everything  that  lives  and  dies, 
Theophilus,  we  like  you  best  asleep. 

Sleep  —  sleep ;  and  let  us  find  another  man 
To  lend  another  name  less  hazardous : 
Caligula,  maybe,  or  Caliban, 
Or  Cain,  —  but  surely  not  Theophilus. 


[84] 


VETERAN  SIRENS 

The  ghost  of  Ninon  would  be  sorry  now 
To  laugh  at  them,  were  she  to  see  them  here, 
So  brave  and  so  alert  for  learning  how 
To  fence  with  reason  for  another  year. 

Age  offers  a  far  comelier  diadem 
Than  theirs ;  but  anguish  has  no  eye  for  grace, 
When  time's  malicious  mercy  cautions  them 
To  think  a  while  of  number  and  of  space. 

[85] 


The  burning  hope,  the  worn  expectancy, 
The  martyred  humor,  and  the  maimed  allure, 
Cry  out  for  time  to  end  his  levity, 
And  age  to  soften  its  investiture ; 

But  they,  though  others  fade  and  are  still  fair, 
Defy  their  fairness  and  are  unsubdued ; 
Although  they  suffer,  they  may  not  forswear 
The  patient  ardor  of  the  unpursued. 

Poor  flesh,  to  fight  the  calendar  so  long  ; 
Poor  vanity,  so  quaint  and  yet  so  brave ; 
Poor  folly,  so  deceived  and  yet  so  strong, 
So  far  from  Ninon  and  so  near  the  grave. 


[86] 


SIEGE  PERILOUS 

Long  warned  of  many  terrors  more  severe 
To  scorch  him  than  hell's  engines  could  awaken, 
He  scanned  again,  too  far  to  be  so  near, 
The  fearful  seat  no  man  had  ever  taken. 

So  many  other  men  with  older  eyes 
Than  his  to  see  with  older  sight  behind  them 
Had  known  so  long  then*  one  way  to  be  wise,  — 
Was  any  other  thing  to  do  than  mind  them  ? 

[87] 


So  many  a  blasting  parallel  had  seared 
Confusion  on  his  faith,  —  could  he  but  wonder 
If  he  were  mad  and  right,  or  if  he  feared 
God's  fury  told  in  shafted  flame  and  thunder? 

There  fell  one  day  upon  his  eyes  a  light 
Ethereal,  and  he  heard  no  more  men  speaking ; 
He  saw  their  shaken  heads,  but  no  long  sight 
Was  his  but  for  the  end  that  he  went  seeking. 

The  end  he  sought  was  not  the  end ;  the  crown 
He  won  shall  unto  many  still  be  given. 
Moreover,  there  was  reason  here  to  frown : 
No  fury  thundered,  no  flame  fell  from  heaven. 


[88] 


ANOTHER  DARK  LADY 

Think  not,  because  I  wonder  where  you  fled, 
That  I  would  lift  a  pin  to  see  you  there ; 
You  may,  for  me,  be  prowling  anywhere, 
So  long  as  you  show  not  your  little  head : 
No  dark  and  evil  story  of  the  dead 
Would  leave  you  less  pernicious  or  less  fair  — 
Not  even  Lilith,  with  her  famous  hair ; 
And  Lilith  was  the  devil,  I  have  read. 

[89] 


I  cannot  hate  you,  for  I  loved  you  then. 

The  woods  were  golden  then.    There  was  a  road 

Through  beeches ;  and  I  said  then*  smooth  feet  showed 

Like  yours.    Truth  must  have  heard  me  from  afar, 

For  I  shall  never  have  to  learn  again 

That  yours  are  cloven  as  no  beech's  are. 


[90] 


THE  VOICE  OF  AGE 

She'd  look  upon  us,  if  she  could, 
As  hard  as  Rhadamanthus  would ; 
Yet  one  may  see,  —  who  sees  her  face, 
Her  crown  of  silver  and  of  lace, 
Her  mystical  serene  address 
Of  age  alloyed  with  loveliness,  — 
That  she  would  not  annihilate 
The  frailest  of  things  animate. 

[91] 


She  has  opinions  of  our  ways, 
And  if  we're  not  all  mad,  she  says,  — 
If  our  ways  are  not  wholly  worse 
Than  others,  for  not  being  hers,  — 
There  might  somehow  be  found  a  few 
Less  insane  things  for  us  to  do, 
And  we  might  have  a  little  heed 
Of  what  Belshazzar  couldn't  read. 

She  feels,  with  all  our  furniture, 
Room  yet  for  something  more  secure 
Than  our  self -kindled  aureoles 
To  guide  our  poor  forgotten  souls ; 
But  when  we  have  explained  that  grace 
Dwells  now  in  doing  for  the  race, 
She  nods  —  as  if  she  were  relieved ; 
Almost  as  if  she  were  deceived. 

[92] 


She  frowns  at  much  of  what  she  hears, 
And  shakes  her  head,  and  has  her  fears ; 
Though  none  may  know,  by  any  chance, 
What  rose-leaf  ashes  of  romance 
Are  faintly  stirred  by  later  days 
That  would  be  well  enough,  she  says, 
If  only  people  were  more  wise, 
Ajid  grown-up  children  used  their  eyes. 


[93] 


THE  DARK  HOUSE 

Where  a  faint  light  shines  alone, 
Dwells  a  Demon  I  have  known. 
Most  of  you  had  better  say 
"  The  Dark  House,"  and  go  your  way. 
Do  not  wonder  if  I  stay. 

For  I  know  the  Demon's  eyes, 
And  their  lure  that  never  dies. 
Banish  all  your  fond  alarms, 
For  I  know  the  foiling  charms 
Of  her  eyes  and  of  her  arms, 

[941 


And  I  know  that  in  one  room 
Burns  a  lamp  as  in  a  tomb ; 
And  I  see  the  shadow  glide, 
Back  and  forth,  of  one  denied 
Power  to  find  himself  outside. 

There  he  is  who  is  my  friend, 
Damned,  he  fancies,  to  the  end  — 
Vanquished,  ever  since  a  door 
Closed,  he  thought,  for  evermore 
On  the  life  that  was  before. 

And  the  friend  who  knows  him  best 
Sees  him  as  he  sees  the  rest 
Who  are  striving  to  be  wise 
While  a  Demon's  arms  and  eyes 
Hold  them  as  a  web  would  flies. 

[951 


All  the  words  of  all  the  world, 
Aimed  together  and  then  hurled, 
Would  be  stiller  in  his  ears 
Than  a  closing  of  still  shears 
On  a  thread  made  out  of  years. 

But  there  lives  another  sound, 
More  compelling,  more  profound ; 
There's  a  music,  so  it  seems, 
That  assuages  and  redeems, 
More  than  reason,  more  than  dreams. 

There's  a  music  yet  unheard 
By  the  creature  of  the  word, 
Though  it  matters  little  more    , 
Than  a  wave-wash  on  a  shore  — 
Till  a  Demon  shuts  a  door. 

[96] 


So,  if  he  be  very  still 
With  his  Demon,  and  one  will, 
Murmurs  of  it  may  be  blown 
To  my  friend  who  is  alone 
In  a  room  that  I  have  known. 

After  that  from  everywhere 
Singing  life  will  find  him  there 
Then  the  door  will  open  wide, 
And  my  friend,  again  outside, 
Will  be  living,  having  died. 


[97] 


THE  POOR  RELATION 

No  longer  torn  by  what  she  knows 
And  sees  within  the  eyes  of  others, 
Her  doubts  are  when  the  daylight  goes, 
Her  fears  are  for  the  few  she  bothers. 
She  tells  them  it  is  wholly  wrong 
Of  her  to  stay  alive  so  long ; 
And  when  she  smiles  her  forehead  shows 
A  crinkle  that  had  been  her  mother's. 

[98] 


Beneath  her  beauty,  blanched  with  pain, 
And  wistful  yet  for  being  cheated, 
A  child  would  seem  to  ask  again 
A  question  many  times  repeated ; 
But  no  rebellion  has  betrayed 
Her  wonder  at  what  she  has  paid 
For  memories  that  have  no  stain, 
For  triumph  born  to  be  defeated. 

To  those  who  come  for  what  she  was  — 

The  few  left  who  know  where  to  find  her  — 

She  clings,  for  they  are  all  she  has ; 

And  she  may  smile  when  they  remind  her, 

As  heretofore,  of  what  they  know 

Of  roses  that  are  still  to  blow 

By  ways  where  not  so  much  as  grass 

Remains  of  what  she  sees  behind  her. 

[99] 


They  stay  a  while,  and  having  done 
What  penance  or  the  past  requires, 
They  go,  and  leave  her  there  alone 
To  count  her  chimneys  and  her  spires. 
Her  lip  shakes  when  they  go  away, 
And  yet  she  would  not  have  them  stay ; 
She  knows  as  well  as  anyone 
That  Pity,  having  played,  soon  tires. 

But  one  friend  always  reappears, 
A  good  ghost,  not  to  be  forsaken ; 
Whereat  she  laughs  and  has  no  fears 
Of  what  a  ghost  may  reawaken, 
But  welcomes,  while  she  wears  and  mends 
The  poor  relation's  odds  and  ends, 
Her  truant  from  a  tomb  of  years  — 
Her  power  of  youth  so  early  taken. 

[100] 


Poor  laugh,  more  slender  than  her  song 
It  seems ;  and  there  are  none  to  hear  it 
With  even  the  stopped  ears  of  the  strong 
For  breaking  heart  or  broken  spirit. 
The  friends  who  clamored  for  her  place, 
And  would  have  scratched  her  for  her  face, 
Have  lost  her  laughter  for  so  long 
That  none  would  care  enough  to  fear  it. 

None  live  who  need  fear  anything 

From  her,  whose  losses  are  their  pleasure ; 

The  plover  with  a  wounded  wing 

Stays  not  the  flight  that  others  measure ; 

So  there  she  waits,  and  while  she  lives, 

And  death  forgets,  and  faith  forgives, 

Her  memories  go  foraging 

For  bits  of  childhood  song  they  treasure. 

[101] 


And  like  a  giant  harp  that  hums 
On  always,  and  is  always  blending 
The  coming  of  what  never  comes 
With  what  has  past  and  had  an  ending, 
The  City  trembles,  throbs,  and  pounds 
Outside,  and  through  a  thousand  sounds 
The  small  intolerable  drums 
Of  Time  are  like  slow  drops  descending. 

Bereft  enough  to  shame  a  sage 

And  given  little  to  long  sighing, 

With  no  illusion  to  assuage 

The  lonely  changelessness  of  dying,  — 

Unsought,  unthought-of,  and  unheard, 

She  sings  and  watches  like  a  bird, 

Safe  in  a  comfortable  cage 

From  which  there  will  be  no  more  flying. 

[102] 


THE  BURNING  BOOK 

OR  THE  CONTENTED  METAPHYSICIAN 

To  the  lore  of  no  manner  of  men 

Would  his  vision  have  yielded 
When  he  found  what  will  never  again 

From  his  vision  be  shielded,  — 
Though  he  paid  with  as  much  of  his  life 

As  a  nun  could  have  given, 
And  to-night  would  have  been  as  a  knife, 

Devil-drawn,  devil-driven. 

[103] 


For  to-night,  with  his  flame-weary  eyes 

On  the  work  he  is  doing, 
He  considers  the  tinder  that  flies 

And  the  quick  flame  pursuing. 
In  the  leaves  that  are  crinkled  and  curled 

Are  his  ashes  of  glory, 
And  what  once  were  an  end  of  the  world 

Is  an  end  of  a  story. 

But  he  smiles,  for  no  more  shall  his  days 

Be  a  toil  and  a  calling 
For  a  way  to  make  others  to  gaze 

On  God's  face  without  falling. 
He  has  come  to  the  end  of  his  words, 

And  alone  he  rejoices 
In  the  choiring  that  silence  affords 

Of  ineffable  voices. 

[104] 


To  a  realm  that  his  words  may  not  reach 

He  may  lead  none  to  find  him ; 
An  adept,  and  with  nothing  to  teach, 

He  leaves  nothing  behind  him. 
For  the  rest,  he  will  have  his  release, 

And  his  embers,  attended 
By  the  large  and  unclamoring  peace 

Of  a  dream  that  is  ended. 


105] 


FRAGMENT 

Faint  white  pillars  that  seem  to  fade 

As  you  look  from  here  are  the  first  one  sees 

Of  his  house  where  it  hides  and  dies  in  a  shade 

Of  beeches  and  oaks  and  hickory  trees. 

Now  many  a  man,  given  woods  like  these, 

And  a  house  like  that,  and  the  Briony  gold, 

Would  have  said,  "  There  are  still  some  gods  to  please, 

And  houses  are  built  without  hands,  we're  told." 

[106] 


There  are  the  pillars,  and  all  gone  gray. 
Briony's  hair  went  white.     You  may  see 
Where  the  garden  was  if  you  come  this  way. 
That  sun-dial  scared  him,  he  said  to  me ; 
"  Sooner  or  later  they  strike,"  said  he, 
And  he  never  got  that  from  the  books  he  read. 
Others  are  flourishing,  worse  than  he, 
But  he  knew  too  much  for  the  life  he  led. 

And  who  knows  all  knows  everything 

That  a  patient  ghost  at  last  retrieves ; 

There's  more  to  be  known  of  his  harvesting 

When  Time  the  thresher  unbinds  the  sheaves ; 

And  there's  more  to  be  heard  than  a  wind  that  grieves 

For  Briony  now  in  this  ageless  oak, 

Driving  the  first  of  its  withered  leaves 

Over  the  stones  where  the  fountain  broke. 

[1071 


LISETTE  AND  EILEEN 

"When  he  was  here  alive,  Eileen, 
There  was  a  word  you  might  have  said ; 
So  never  mind  what  I  have  been, 
Or  anything,  —  for  you  are  dead. 

"And  after  this  when  I  am  there 
Where  he  is,  you'll  be  dying  still. 
Your  eyes  are  dead,  and  your  black  hair, 
The  rest  of  you  be  what  it  will. 

[108] 


"  'Twas  all  to  save  him  ?    Never  mind, 
Eileen.     You  saved  him.     You  are  strong. 
I'd  hardly  wonder  if  your  kind 
Paid  everything,  for  you  live  long. 

"  You  last,  I  mean.     That's  what  I  mean. 
I  mean  you  last  as  long  as  lies. 
You  might  have  said  that  word,  Eileen,  — 
And  you  might  have  your  hair  and  eyes. 

"  And  what  you  see  might  be  Lisette, 
Instead  of  this  that  has  no  name. 
Your  silence  —  I  can  feel  it  yet, 
Mive  and  in  me,  like  a  flame. 

"Where  might  I  be  with  him  to-day, 
Could  he  have  known  before  he  heard  ? 
But  no  —  your  silence  had  its  way, 
Without  a  weapon  or  a  word. 

[109] 


"  Because  a  word  was  never  told, 
I'm  going  as  a  worn  toy  goes. 
And  you  are  dead ;  and  you'll  be  old ; 
And  I  forgive  you,  I  suppose. 

"I'll  soon  be  changing  as  all  do, 
To  something  we  have  always  been ; 
And  you'll  be  old  ...     He  liked  you,  too. 
I  might  have  killed  you  then,  Eileen. 

"  I  think  he  liked  as  much  of  you 
As  had  a  reason  to  be  seen,  — 
As  much  as  God  made  black  and  blue. 
He  liked  your  hair  and  eyes,  Eileen." 


110] 


LLEWELLYN  AND  THE  TREE 

Could  he  have  made  Priscilla  share 
The  paradise  that  he  had  planned, 

Llewellyn  would  have  loved  his  wife 
As  well  as  any  in  the  land. 

Could  he  have  made  Priscilla  cease 
To  goad  him  for  what  God  left  out, 

Llewellyn  would  have  been  as  mild 
As  any  we  have  read  about. 

mi] 


Could  all  have  been  as  all  was  not, 
Llewellyn  would  have  had  no  story ; 

He  would  have  stayed  a  quiet  man 
And  gone  his  quiet  way  to  glory. 

But  howsoever  mild  he  was 

Priscilla  was  implacable ; 
And  whatsoever  timid  hopes 

He  built  —  she  found  them,  and  they  fell. 

And  this  went  on,  with  intervals 

Of  labored  harmony  between 
Resounding  discords,  till  at  last 

Llewellyn  turned  —  as  will  be  seen. 

Priscilla,  warmer  than  her  name, 
And  shriller  than  the  sound  of  saws, 

Pursued  Llewellyn  once  too  far, 
Not  knowing  quite  the  man  he  was. 

[112] 


The  more  she  said,  the  fiercer  clung 
The  stinging  garment  of  his  wrath ; 

And  this  was  all  before  the  day 
When  Time  tossed  roses  in  his  path. 

Before  the  roses  ever  came 

Llewellyn  had  already  risen. 
The  roses  may  have  ruined  him, 

They  may  have  kept  him  out  of  prison. 

And  she  who  brought  them,  being  Fate, 
Made  roses  do  the  work  of  spears,  — 

Though  many  made  no  more  of  her 
Than  civet,  coral,  rouge,  and  years. 

You  ask  us  what  Llewellyn  saw, 
But  why  ask  what  may  not  be  given  ? 

To  some  will  come  a  time  when  change 
Itself  is  beauty,  if  not  heaven. 

i  [  113  ] 


-    u 
IM*J 


•>• 


.:-; 


The  roses,  faded  and  gone  by, 

Left  ruin  where  they  once  had  reigned ; 
But  on  the  wreck,  as  on  old  shells, 

The  color  of  the  rose  remained. 

His  fictive  merchandise  I  bought 
For  him  to  keep  and  show  again, 

Then  led  him  slowly  from  the  crush 
Of  his  cold-shouldered  fellow  men. 

"And  so,  Llewellyn,"  I  began  — 
"Not  so,"  he  said ;   "not  so,  at  all : 

I've  tried  the  world,  and  found  it  good, 
For  more  than  twenty  years  this  fall. 

"And  what  the  world  has  left  of  me 
Will  go  now  in  a  little  while." 

And  what  the  world  had  left  of  him 
Was  partly  an  unholy  guile. 

[116] 


"  That  I  have  paid  for  being  calm 
Is  what  you  see,  if  you  have  eyes ; 

For  let  a  man  be  calm  too  long, 
He  pays  for  much  before  he  dies. 

"Be  calm  when  you  are  growing  old 
And  you  have  nothing  else  to  do ; 

Pour  not  the  wine  of  life  too  thin 
If  water  means  the  death  of  you. 

"You  say  I  might  have  learned  at  home 
The  truth  in  season  to  be  strong  ? 

Not  so ;  I  took  the  wine  of  life 
Too  thin,  and  I  was  calm  too  long. 

"  Like  others  who  are  strong  too  late, 
For  me  there  was  no  going  back ; 

For  I  had  found  another  speed, 
And  I  was  on  the  other  track. 

[1171 


"  God  knows  how  far  I  might  have  gone 
Or  what  there  might  have  been  to  see ; 

But  my  speed  had  a  sudden  end, 
And  here  you  have  the  end  of  me." 

The  end  or  not,  it  may  be  now 
But  little  farther  from  the  truth 

To  say  those  worn  satiric  eyes 

Had  something  of  immortal  youth. 

He  may  among  the  millions  here 
Be  one ;  or  he  may,  quite  as  well, 

Be  gone  to  find  again  the  Tree 

Of  Knowledge,  out  of  which  he  fell. 

He  may  be  near  us,  dreaming  yet 
Of  unrepented  rouge  and  coral ; 

Or  in  a  grave  without  a  name 
May  be  as  far  off  as  a  moral. 

[1181 


BEWICK  FINZER 

Time  was  when  his  half  million  drew 
The  breath  of  six  per  cent ; 

But  soon  the  worm  of  what-was-not 
Fed  hard  on  his  content ; 

And  something  crumbled  in  his  brain 
When  his  half  million  went. 

Time  passed,  and  filled  along  with  his 
The  place  of  many  more ; 

[1191 


Time  came,  and  hardly  one  of  us 

Had  credence  to  restore, 
From  what  appeared  one  day,  the  man 

Whom  we  had  known  before. 

The  broken  voice,  the  withered  neck, 

The  coat  worn  out  with  care, 
The  cleanliness  of  indigence, 

The  brilliance  of  despair, 
The  fond  imponderable  dreams 

Of  affluence,  —  all  were  there. 

Poor  Finzer,  with  his  dreams  and  schemes, 

Fares  hard  now  in  the  race, 
With  heart  and  eye  that  have  a  task 

When  he  looks  in  the  face 
Of  one  who  might  so  easily 

Have  been  in  Finzer's  place. 

[1201 


He  comes  unfailing  for  the  loan 
We  give  and  then  forget ; 

He  comes,  and  probably  for  years 
Will  he  be  coming  yet,  — 

Familiar  as  an  old  mistake, 
And  futile  as  regret. 


[121] 


BOKARDO 

Well,  Bokardo,  here  we  are ; 

Make  yourself  at  home. 
Look  around  —  you  haven't  far 

To  look  —  and  why  be  dumb  ? 
Not  the  place  that  used  to  be, 
Not  so  many  things  to  see ; 
But  there's  room  for  you  and  me. 

And  you  —  you've  come. 

[122] 


Talk  a  little ;  or,  if  not, 

Show  me  with  a  sign 
Why  it  was  that  you  forgot 

What  was  yours  and  mine. 
Friends,  I  gather,  are  small  things 
In  an  age  when  coins  are  kings ; 
Even  at  that,  one  hardly  flings 

Friends  before  swine. 

Rather  strong  ?     I  knew  as  much, 

For  it  made  you  speak. 
No  offense  to  swine,  as  such, 

But  why  this  hide-and-seek  ? 
You  have  something  on  your  side, 
And  you  wish  you  might  have  died, 
So  you  tell  me.     And  you  tried 

One  night  last  week  ? 

[1231 


You  tried  hard  ?     And  even  then 

Found  a  time  to  pause  ? 
When  you  try  as  hard  again, 

You'll  have  another  cause. 
When  you  find  yourself  at  odds 
With  all  dreamers  of  all  gods, 
You  may  smite  yourself  with  rods  • 

But  not  the  laws. 

Though  they  seem  to  show  a  spite 

Rather  devilish, 
They  move  on  as  with  a  might 

Stronger  than  your  wish. 
Still,  however  strong  they  be, 
They  bide  man's  authority : 
Xerxes,  when  he  flogged  the  sea, 

May've  scared  a  fish. 

[124] 


It's  a  comfort,  if  you  like, 

To  keep  honor  warm, 
But  as  often  as  you  strike 

The  laws,  you  do  no  harm. 
To  the  laws,  I  mean.     To  you  — 
That's  another  point  of  view, 
One  you  may  as  well  indue 

With  some  alarm. 

Not  the  most  heroic  face 

To  present,  I  grant ; 
Nor  will  you  insure  disgrace 

By  fearing  what  you  want. 
Freedom  has  a  world  of  sides, 
And  if  reason  once  derides 
Courage,  then  your  courage  hides 

A  deal  of  cant. 

[125] 


Learn  a  little  to  forget 

Life  was  once  a  feast ; 
You  aren't  fit  for  dying  yet, 

So  don't  be  a  beast. 
Few  men  with  a  mind  will  say, 
Thinking  twice,  that  they  can  pay 
Half  their  debts  of  yesterday, 

Or  be  released. 

There's  a  debt  now  on  your  mind 

More  than  any  gold  ? 
And  there's  nothing  you  can  find 

Out  there  in  the  cold  ? 
Only  —  what's  his  name  ?  —  Remorse  ? 
And  Death  riding  on  his  horse  ? 
Well,  be  glad  there's  nothing  worse 

Than  you  have  told. 

[126] 


Leave  Remorse  to  warm  his  hands 

Outside  in  the  rain. 
As  for  Death,  he  understands, 

And  he  will  come  again. 
Therefore,  till  your  wits  are  clear, 
Flourish  and  be  quiet  —  here. 
But  a  devil  at  each  ear 

Will  be  a  strain? 

Past  a  doubt  they  will  indeed, 
More  than  you  have  earned. 

I  say  that  because  you  need 
Ablution,  being  burned  ? 

Well,  if  you  must  have  it  so, 

Your  last  flight  went  rather  low. 

Better  say  you  had  to  know 
What  you  have  learned. 

[127] 


And  that's  over.    Here  you  are, 

Battered  by  the  past. 
Time  will  have  his  little  scar, 

But  the  wound  won't  last. 
Nor  shall  harrowing  surprise 
Find  a  world  without  its  eyes 
If  a  star  fades  when  the  skies 

Are  overcast. 

God  knows  there  are  lives  enough, 

Crushed,  and  too  far  gone 
Longer  to  make  sermons  of, 
And  those  we  leave  alone. 
Others,  if  they  will,  may  rend 
The  worn  patience  of  a  friend 
Who,  though  smiling,  sees  the  end, 
With  nothing  done. 

[128] 


But  your  fervor  to  be  free 
Fled  the  faith  it  scorned ; 

Death  demands  a  decency 
Of  you,  and  you  are  warned. 

But  for  all  we  give  we  get 

Mostly  blows  ?    Don't  be  upset ; 

You,  Bokardo,  are  not  yet 
Consumed  or  mourned. 

There'll  be  falling  into  view 

Much  to  rearrange ; 
And  there'll  be  a  time  for  you 

To  marvel  at  the  change. 
They  that  have  the  least  to  fear 
Question  hardest  what  is  here ; 
When  long-hidden  skies  are  clear, 

The  stars  look  strange. 

c  [129] 


THE  MAN  AGAINST  THE  SKY 

Between  me  and  the  sunset,  like  a  dome 

Against  the  glory  of  a  world  on  fire, 

Now  burned  a  sudden  hill, 

Bleak,   round,   and   high,   by   flame-lit  height  made 

higher, 

With  nothing  on  it  for  the  flame  to  kill 
Save  one  who  moved  and  was  alone  up  there 
To  loom  before  the  chaos  and  the  glare 
As  if  he  were  the  last  god  going  home 
Unto  his  last  desire. 

[130] 


Dark,  marvelous,  and  inscrutable  he  moved  on 

Till  down  the  fiery  distance  he  was  gone,  — 

Like  one  of  those  eternal,  remote  things 

That  range  across  a  man's  imaginings 

When  a  sure  music  fills  him  and  he  knows 

What  he  may  say  thereafter  to  few  men,  — 

The  touch  of  ages  having  wrought 

An  echo  and  a  glimpse  of  what  he  thought 

A  phantom  or  a  legend  until  then ; 

For  whether  lighted  over  ways  that  save, 

Or  lured  from  all  repose, 

If  he  go  on  too  far  to  find  a  grave, 

Mostly  alone  he  goes. 

Even  he,  who  stood  where  I  had  found  him, 
On  high  with  fire  all  round  him,  — 
Who  moved  along  the  molten  west, 

[131] 


And  over  the  round  hill's  crest 

That  seemed  half  ready  with  him  to  go  down, 

Flame-bitten  and  flame-cleft,  — 

As  if  there  were  to  be  no  last  thing  left 

Of  a  nameless  unimaginable  town,  — 

Even  he  who  climbed  and  vanished  may  have  taken 

Down  to  the  perils  of  a  depth  not  known, 

From  death  defended  though  by  men  forsaken, 

The  bread  that  every  man  must  eat  alone ; 

He  may  have  walked  while  others  hardly  dared 

Look  on  to  see  him  stand  where  many  fell ; 

And  upward  out  of  that,  as  out  of  hell, 

He  may  have  sung  and  striven 

To  mount  where  more  of  him  shall  yet  be  given, 

Bereft  of  all  retreat, 

To  sevenfold  heat,  — 

As  on  a  day  when  three  in  Dura  shared 

[132] 


The  furnace,  and  were  spared 

For  glory  by  that  king  of  Babylon 

Who  made  himself  so  great  that  God,  who  heard, 

Covered  him  with  long  feathers,  like  a  bird. 

Again,  he  may  have  gone  down  easily, 

By  comfortable  altitudes,  and  found, 

As  always,  underneath  him  solid  ground 

Whereon  to  be  sufficient  and  to  stand 

Possessed  already  of  the  promised  land, 

Far  stretched  and  fair  to  see : 

A  good  sight,  verily, 

And  one  to  make  the  eyes  of  her  who  bore  him 

Shine  glad  with  hidden  tears. 

Why  question  of  his  ease  of  who  before  him, 

In  one  place  or  another  where  they  left 

Their  names  as  far  behind  them  as  their  bones, 

[133] 


And  yet  by  dint  of  slaughter  toil  and  theft, 
And  shrewdly  sharpened  stones, 
Carved  hard  the  way  for  his  ascendency 
Through  deserts  of  lost  years  ? 
Why  trouble  him  now  who  sees  and  hears 
No  more  than  what  his  innocence  requires, 
And  therefore  to  no  other  height  aspires 
Than  one  at  which  he  neither  quails  nor  tires  ? 
He  may  do  more  by  seeing  what  he  sees 
Than  others  eager  for  iniquities ; 
He  may,  by  seeing  all  things  for  the  best, 
Incite  futurity  to  do  the  rest. 

Or  with  an  even  likelihood, 
He  may  have  met  with  atrabilious  eyes 
The  fires  of  time  on  equal  terms  and  passed 
Indifferently  down,  until  at  last 

[1341 


His  only  kind  of  grandeur  would  have  been, 

Apparently,  in  being  seen. 

He  may  have  had  for  evil  or  for  good 

No  argument ;  he  may  have  had  no  care 

For  what  without  himself  went  anywhere 

To  failure  or  to  glory,  and  least  of  all 

For  such  a  stale,  flamboyant  miracle ; 

He  may  have  been  the  prophet  of  an  art 

Immovable  to  old  idolatries ; 

He  may  have  been  a  player  without  a  part, 

Annoyed  that  even  the  sun  should  have  the  skies 

For  such  a  flaming  way  to  advertise ; 

He  may  have  been  a  painter  sick  at  heart 

With  Nature's  toiling  for  a  new  surprise; 

He  may  have  been  a  cynic,  who  now,  for  all 

Of  anything  divine  that  his  effete 

Negation  may  have  tasted, 

[135] 


Saw  truth  in  his  own  image,  rather  small, 

Forbore  to  fever  the  ephemeral, 

Found  any  barren  height  a  good  retreat 

From  any  swarming  street, 

And  in  the  sun  saw  power  superbly  wasted  ; 

And  when  the  primitive  old-fashioned  stars 

Came  out  again  to  shine  on  joys  and  wars 

More  primitive,  and  all  arrayed  for  doom, 

He  may  have  proved  a  world  a  sorry  thing 

In  his  imagining, 

And  Me  a  lighted  highway  to  the  tomb. 

Or,  mounting  with  infirm  unsearching  tread, 
His  hopes  to  chaos  led, 

He  may  have  stumbled  up  there  from  the  past, 
And  with  an  aching  strangeness  viewed  the  last 
Abysmal  conflagration  of  his  dreams,  — 

rise] 


A  flame  where  nothing  seems 

To  burn  but  flame  itself,  by  nothing  fed ; 

And  while  it  all  went  out, 

Not  even  the  faint  anodyne  of  doubt 

May  then  have  eased  a  painful  going  down 

From  pictured  heights  of  power  and  lost  renown, 

Revealed  at  length  to  his  outlived  endeavor 

Remote  and  unapproachable  forever ; 

And  at  his  heart  there  may  have  gnawed 

Sick  memories  of  a  dead  faith  foiled  and  flawed 

And  long  dishonored  by  the  living  death 

Assigned  alike  by  chance 

To  brutes  and  hierophants ; 

And  anguish  fallen  on  those  he  loved  around  him 

May  once  have  dealt  the  last  blow  to  confound  him, 

And  so  have  left  him  as  death  leaves  a  child, 

Who  sees  it  all  too  near ; 

[1371 


And  he  who  knows  no  young  way  to  forget 

May  struggle  to  the  tomb  unreconciled. 

Whatever  suns  may  rise  or  set 

There  may  be  nothing  kinder  for  him  here 

Than  shafts  and  agonies ; 

And  under  these 

He  may  cry  out  and  stay  on  horribly ; 

Or,  seeing  in  death  too  small  a  thing  to  fear, 

He  may  go  forward  like  a  stoic  Roman 

Where  pangs  and  terrors  in  his  pathway  lie,  — 

Or,  seizing  the  swift  logic  of  a  woman, 

Curse  God  and  die. 

Or  maybe  there,  like  many  another  one 

Who  might  have  stood  aloft  and  looked  ahead, 

Black-drawn  against  wild  red, 

He  may  have  built,  unawed  by  fiery  gules 

[138] 


That  in  him  no  commotion  stirred, 

A  living  reason  out  of  molecules 

Why  molecules  occurred, 

And  one  for  smiling  when  he  might  have  sighed 

Had  he  seen  far  enough, 

And  in  the  same  inevitable  stuff 

Discovered  an  odd  reason  too  for  pride 

In  being  what  he  must  have  been  by  laws 

Infrangible  and  for  no  kind  of  cause. 

Deterred  by  no  confusion  or  surprise 

He  may  have  seen  with  his  mechanic  eyes 

A  world  without  a  meaning,  and  had  room, 

Alone  amid  magnificence  and  doom, 

To  build  himself  an  airy  monument 

That  should,  or  fail  him  in  his  vague  intent, 

Outlast  an  accidental  universe  — 

To  call  it  nothing  worse  — 

[139] 


Or,  by  the  burrowing  guile 

Of  Time  disintegrated  and  effaced, 

Like  once-remembered  mighty  trees  go  down 

To  ruin,  of  which  by  man  may  now  be  traced 

No  part  sufficient  even  to  be  rotten, 

And  in  the  book  of  things  that  are  forgotten 

Is  entered  as  a  thing  not  quite  worth  while. 

He  may  have  been  so  great 

That  satraps  would  have  shivered  at  his  frown, 

And  all  he  prized  alive  may  rule  a  state 

No  larger  than  a  grave  that  holds  a  clown ; 

He  may  have  been  a  master  of  his  fate, 

And  of  his  atoms,  —  ready  as  another 

In  his  emergence  to  exonerate 

His  father  and  his  mother ; 

He  may  have  been  a  captain  of  a  host, 

Self -eloquent  and  ripe  for  prodigies, 

[140] 


Doomed  here  to  swell  by  dangerous  degrees, 
And  then  give  up  the  ghost. 
Nahum's  great  grasshoppers  were  such  as  these, 
Sun-scattered  and  soon  lost. 

Whatever  the  dark  road  he  may  have  taken, 

This  man  who  stood  on  high 

And  faced  alone  the  sky, 

Whatever  drove  or  lured  or  guided  him,  — 

A  vision  answering  a  faith  unshaken, 

An  easy  trust  assumed  of  easy  trials, 

A  sick  negation  born  of  weak  denials, 

A  crazed  abhorrence  of  an  old  condition, 

A  blind  attendance  on  a  brief  ambition,  — 

Whatever  stayed  him  or  derided  him, 

His  way  was  even  as  ours ; 

And  we,  with  all  our  wounds  and  all  our  powers, 

[141] 


Must  each  await  alone  at  his  own  height 

Another  darkness  or  another  light ; 

And  there,  of  our  poor  self  dominion  reft, 

If  inference  and  reason  shun 

Hell,  Heaven,  and  Oblivion, 

May  thwarted  will  (perforce  precarious, 

But  for  our  conservation  better  thus) 

Have  no  misgiving  left 

Of  doing  yet  what  here  we  leave  undone  ? 

Or  if  unto  the  last  of  these  we  cleave, 

Believing  or  protesting  we  believe 

In  such  an  idle  and  ephemeral 

Florescence  of  the  diabolical,  — 

If,  robbed  of  two  fond  old  enormities, 

Our  being  had  no  onward  auguries, 

What  then  were  this  great  love  of  ours  to  say 

For  launching  other  lives  to  voyage  again 

[142] 


A  little  farther  into  time  and  pain, 

A  little  faster  in  a  futile  chase 

For  a  kingdom  and  a  power  and  a  Race 

That  would  have  still  in  sight 

A  manifest  end  of  ashes  and  eternal  night  ? 

Is  this  the  music  of  the  toys  we  shake 

So  loud,  —  as  if  there  might  be  no  mistake 

Somewhere  in  our  indomitable  will  ? 

Are  we  no  greater  than  the  noise  we  make 

Along  one  blind  atomic  pilgrimage 

Whereon  by  crass  chance  billeted  we  go 

Because  our  brains  and  bones  and  cartilage 

Will  have  it  so? 

If  this  we  say,  then  let  us  all  be  still 

About  our  share  in  it,  and  live  and  die 

More  quietly  thereby. 


143 


Where  was  he  going,  this  man  against  the  sky  ? 

You  know  not,  nor  do  I. 

But  this  we  know,  if  we  know  anything : 

That  we  may  laugh  and  fight  and  sing 

And  of  our  transience  here  make  offering 

To  an  orient  Word  that  will  not  be  erased, 

Or,  save  in  incommunicable  gleams 

Too  permanent  for  dreams, 

Be  found  or  known. 

No  tonic  and  ambitious  irritant 

Of  increase  or  of  want 

Has  made  an  otherwise  insensate  waste 

Of  ages  overthrown 

A  ruthless,  veiled,  implacable  foretaste 

Of  other  ages  that  are  still  to  be 

Depleted  and  rewarded  variously 

Because  a  few,  by  fate's  economy, 

[1441 


Shall  seem  to  move  the  world  the  way  it  goes ; 
No  soft  evangel  of  equality, 
Safe-cradled  in  a  communal  repose 
That  huddles  into  death  and  may  at  last 
Be  covered  well  with  equatorial  snows  — 
And  all  for  what,  the  devil  only  knows  — 
Will  aggregate  an  inkling  to  confirm 
The  credit  of  a  sage  or  of  a  worm, 
Or  tell  us  why  one  man  in  five 
Should  have  a  care  to  stay  alive 
While  in  his  heart  he  feels  no  violence 
Laid  on  his  humor  and  intelligence 
When  infant  Science  makes  a  pleasant  face 
And  waves  again  that  hollow  toy,  the  Race ; 
No  planetary  trap  where  souls  are  wrought 
For  nothing  but  the  sake  of  being  caught 
And  sent  again  to  nothing  will  attune 

L  [  145  ] 


Itself  to  any  key  of  any  reason 

Why  man  should  hunger  through  another  season 

To  find  out  why  'twere  better  late  than  soon 

To  go  away  and  let  the  sun  and  moon 

And  all  the  silly  stars  illuminate 

A  place  for  creeping  things, 

And  those  that  root  and  trumpet  and  have  wings, 

And  herd  and  ruminate, 

Or  dive  and  flash  and  poise  in  rivers  and  seas, 

Or  by  their  loyal  tails  in  lofty  trees 

Hang  screeching  lewd  victorious  derision 

Of  man's  immortal  vision. 

Shall  we,  because  Eternity  records 
Too  vast  an  answer  for  the  time-born  words 
We  spell,  whereof  so  many  are  dead  that  once 
'  In  our  capricious  lexicons 

[146] 


Were  so  alive  and  final,  hear  no  more 

The  Word  itself,  the  living  word  no  man 

Has  ever  spelt, 

And  few  have  ever  felt 

Without  the  fears  and  old  surrenderings 

And  terrors  that  began 

When  Death  let  fall  a  feather  from  his  wings 

And  humbled  the  first  man  ? 

Because  the  weight  of  our  humility, 

Wherefrom  we  gain 

A  little  wisdom  and  much  pain, 

Falls  here  too  sore  and  there  too  tedious, 

Are  we  in  anguish  or  complacency, 

Not  looking  far  enough  ahead 

To  see  by  what  mad  couriers  we  are  led 

Along  the  roads  of  the  ridiculous, 

To  pity  ourselves  and  laugh  at  faith 

[1471 


And  while  we  curse  life  bear  it  ? 

And  if  we  see  the  soul's  dead  end  in  death, 

Are  we  to  fear  it  ? 

What  folly  is  here  that  has  not  yet  a  name 

Unless  we  say  outright  that  we  are  liars  ? 

What  have  we  seen  beyond  our  sunset  fires 

That  lights  again  the  way  by  which  we  came  ? 

Why  pay  we  such  a  price,  and  one  we  give 

So  clamoringly,  for  each  racked  empty  day 

That  leads  one  more  last  human  hope  away, 

As  quiet  fiends  would  lead  past  our  crazed  eyes 

Our  children  to  an  unseen  sacrifice  ? 

If  after  all  that  we  have  lived  and  thought, 

All  comes  to  Nought,  — 

If  there  be  nothing  after  Now, 

And  we  be  nothing  anyhow, 

And  we  know  that,  —  why  live  ? 

[148] 


'Twere  sure  but  weaklings'  vain  distress 
To  suffer  dungeons  where  so  many  doprs 
Will  open  on  the  cold  eternal  shores 
That  look  sheer  down 
To  the  dark  tideless  floods  of  Nothingness 
Where  all  who  know  may  drown. 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America. 


149] 


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Captain  Craig,  A  Book  of  Poems 


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"  There  are  few  poets  writing  in  English  to-day  whose  work  is  so  per- 
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the  presence  of  a  man  behind  the  poet  —  a  man  who  knows  life  and 
people  and  things  and  writes  of  them  clearly,  with  a  subtle  poetic  insight 
that  is  not  visible  in  the  work  of  any  other  living  writer."  —  Brooklyn 
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"  The  '  Book  of  Annandale,'  a  splendid  poem  included  in  this  collec- 
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"  Wherever  you  hear  people  who  know  speak  of  American  poets  .  .  . 
they  assume  that  you  take  the  genius  and  place  of  Edwin  Arlington 
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Edwin  Arlington  Robinson's  comedy  "  Van  Zorn  "  proved  him  to 
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"  Contains  all  of  the  qualities  that  are  said  to  be  conspicuously  lacking 
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For  the  first  time  the  essentially  epic  period  of  the  American  fur  trade 
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His  book  goes  a  long  way  to  disprove  the  statement  that  is  sometimes 
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The  Story  of  a  Roundhouse.     By  JOHN  MASEFIELD 
»  The  Faithful.    By  JOHN  MASEFIELD 
The  Tragedy  of  Pompey  the  Great.    By  JOHN  MASEFIELD 
Philip  the  King  and  Other  Poems.    By  JOHN  MASEFIELD 
A  Mainsail  Haul.    By  JOHN  MASEFIELD 
The  Daffodil  Fields.    By  JOHN  MASEFIELD 
The  Everlasting  Mercy.    By  JOHN  MASEFIELD 
Salt  Water  Ballads.    By  JOHN  MASEFIELD 
Spoon  River  Anthology.    By  EDGAR  LEE  MASTERS 
The  Congo  and  Other  Poems.    By  VACHEL  LINDSAY 
Crack  0'  Dawn.    By  FANNIE  STEARNS  DAVIS 
Fires.    By  WILFRID  WILSON  GIBSON 
Daily  Bread.    By  WILFRID  WILSON  GIBSON 
Womenkind.    By  WILFRID  WILSON  GIBSON 
Poems.    By  ALFRED  NOYES 
Vision  of  War.    By  LINCOLN  COLCORD 
Rivers  to  the  Sea.    By  SARA  TEASDALE 
The  Pilgrim  Kings.    By  THOMAS  WALSH 
The  Song  of  Hugh  Glass.    By  JOHN  G.  NEIHARDT 

The  work  of  the  more  popular  of  the  modern  poets  is  now  to  be  available  in 
attractive  leather  bindings.  A  number  of  the  books  included  in  the  series  are 
new  publications  this  year—  "  Rivers  to  the  Sea,"  "  The  Pilgrim  Kings,"  "  Vis- 
ion of  War,"  "  Crack  O'  Dawn,"  "  The  Song  of  Hugh  Glass,"  "  The  Faithful," 
and  "  Spoon  River  Anthology,"  for  example  —  but  whether  new  or  old  they  are 
all  the  work  of  established  authors  warranting  preservation  in  this  more  elaborate 
form. 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

Publishers  64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  Tork 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


RENEWED  BOOKS  ARE  SUBJECT  TO  IMMEDIATE 
RECALL 


i 

TP!   II  IN 
* 


3  1967 
Rtt'O 

UCD  LIBR^RY 

JUN  H197 
.MAY  3    RE 


LIBRARY,  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  DAVIS 

Book  Slip-50m-8,'63(D9954s4)458 


305120 


Robinson,  E.  A. 

Man  against  the  sky, 


Call  Number: 


025 

M3 


Robinson 


PS3555" 
025 


305120 


